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SECTION  III 

THE  ENGLISH   DRAMA 

FROM    ITS    BEGINNING    TO    THE    PRESENT    DAY 


GENERAL    EDITOR 

GEORGE   PIERCE  BAKER 

ASSISTANT    PROFESSOR    OF    ENGLISH 
IN    HARVARD   UNIVERSITY 


BUSSY    D'AMBOIS 

AND 

THE  REVENGE  OF 
BUSSY    D'AMBOIS 


By  GEORGE  CHAPMAN 


EDITED    BY 

FREDERICK   S.    BOAS,    M.A. 

PROFESSOR   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE  IN 
gUEEN's  COLLEGE,    BELFAST 


BOSTON,    U.S.A.,    AND    LONDON 

D.    C.    HEATH  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 

1905 


COPYRIGHT,    1905,    BY 
D.  C.  HEATH    &   CO. 


In  this  volume  an  attempt  is  made  for  the  first  time 
to  edit  Bussy  D'  Ambois  and  The  Revenge  of  Bussy 
W  Ambois  in  a  manner  suitable  to  the  requirements  of 
modern  scholarship.  Of  the  relations  of  this  edition  to 
its  predecessors  some  details  are  given  in  the  Notes  on 
the  Text  of  the  two  plays.  But  in  these  few  prefatory 
words  I  should  like  to  call  attention  to  one  or  two  points, 
and  make  some  acknowledgments. 

The  immediate  source  of  Bussy  D^  Ambois  still  re- 
mains undiscovered.  But  the  episodes  in  the  career  of 
Chapman's  hero,  vouched  for  by  contemporaries  like 
Brantome  and  Marguerite  of  Valois,  and  related  in 
some  detail  in  my  Introduction,  are  typical  of  the  ma- 
terial which  the  dramatist  worked  upon.  And  an  im- 
portant clue  to  the  spirit  in  which  he  handled  it  is  the 
identification,  here  first  made,  of  part  of  Bussy' s  dying 
speech  with  lines  put  by  Seneca  into  the  mouth  of  Her- 
cules in  his  last  agony  on  Mount  CEta.  The  exploits  of 
D'Ambois  were  in  Chapman's  imaginative  vision  those 
of  a  semi-mythical  hero  rather  than  of  a  Frenchman 
whose  life  overlapped  with  his  own. 

On  the  provenance  of  The  Revenge  of  Bussy  D'  Am- 
bois  I  have  been  fortunately  able,  with  valuable  assist- 
ance from  others,  to  cast  much  new  light.  In  an  article 
in  The  Athenceum,  Jan.  lo,  1903,  I  showed  that  the 
immediate  source  of  many  of  the  episodes  in  the  play 


iv  prefatory  i^ote 

was  Edward  Grimeston's  translation  (1607)  of  Jean 
de  Serres's  Inventaire  General  de  P Histoire  de  France. 
Since  that  date  I  owe  to  Mr.  H.  Richards,  Fellow  of 
Wadham  College,  Oxford,  the  important  discovery  that 
a  number  of  speeches  in  the  play  are  borrowed  from  the 
Discourses  of  Epictetus,  from  whom  Chapman  drew  his 
conception  of  the  character  of  Clermont  D'Ambois. 
My  brother-in-law,  Mr.  S.  G.  Owen,  Student  of  Christ 
Church,  has  given  me  valuable  help  in  explaining  some 
obscure  classical  allusions.  Dr.  J.  A.  H.  Murray,  the 
editor  of  the  New  English  Dictionary,  has  kindly  fur- 
nished me  with  the  interpretation  of  a  difficult  passage 
in  Bussy  D''  Ambois ;  and  Mr.  W.  J.  Craig,  editor  of 
the  Arden  Shakespeare,  and  Mr.  Le  Gay  Brereton, 
of  the  University  of  Sidney,  have  been  good  enough 
to  proffer  helpful  suggestions.  Finally  I  am  indebted  to 
Professor  George  P.  Baker,  the  General  Editor  of  this 
Series,  for  valuable  advice  and  help  on  a  large  number 
o{  points,  while  the  proofs  of  this  volume  were  passing 
through  the  press. 

F.  S.  B. 


"Btograpi^t 


George  Chapman  was  probably  born  in  the  year  after  Elizabeth's 
accession.  Anthony  Wood  gives  1557  as  the  date,  but  the  inscrip- 
tion on  his  portrait,  prefixed  to  the  edition  of  The  Whole  Works  of 
Homer  in  1616,  points  to  1559.  He  was  a  native  of  Hitchin  in 
Hertfordshire,  as  we  learn  from  an  allusion  in  his  poem  Euthymite 
Raptus  or  The  Teares  of  Peace,  and  from  W.  Browne's  reference 
to  him  in  Britannia's  Pastorals  as  "  the  learned  shepheard  of  faire 
Hitching  Hill."  According  to  Wood  "in  1574  or  thereabouts, 
he  being  well  grounded  in  school  learning  was  sent  to  the  Univer- 
sity." Wood  is  uncertain  whether  he  went  first  to  Oxford  or  to 
Cambridge,  but  he  is  sure,  though  he  gives  no  authority  for  the 
statement,  that  Chapman  spent  some  time  at  the  former  <'  where 
he  was  observed  to  be  most  excellent  in  the  Latin  &  Greek  tongues, 
but  not  in  logic  or  philosophy,  and  therefore  I  presume  that  that 
was  the  reason  why  he  took  no  degree  there." 

His  life  for  almost  a  couple  of  decades  afterwards  is  a  blank, 
though  it  has  been  conjectured  on  evidences  drawn  from  The  Shadow 
of  Night  and  Alphonsus  Emperor  of  Germany,  respectively,  that 
he  served  in  one  of  Sir  F.  Vere's  campaigns  in  the  Netherlands, 
and  that  he  travelled  in  Germany.  The  Shadoiu  of  Night,  con- 
sisting of  two  "  poeticall  hymnes  "  appeared  in  1594,  and  is  his 
first  extant  work.  It  was  followed  in  1595  by  0-vid's  Banquet  of 
Sence,  The  Amorous  Zodiac,  and  other  poems.  These  early  compo- 
sitions, while  containing  fine  passages,  are  obscure  and  crabbed  in 
style.'  In  1598  appeared  Marlowe's  fragmentary  Hero  and  Leander 
with  Chapman's  continuation.    By  this  year  he  had  established  his 

I  This  Biography  was  written  before  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Acheson's 
volume,  Shakespeare  and  the  Rival  Poet.  Without  endorsing  all  his  argu- 
ments or  conclusions,  I  hold  that  Mr.  Acheson  has  proved  that  Shake- 
speare in  a  number  of  his  Sonnets  refers  to  these  earlier  poems  of  Chap- 
man's. He  has  thus  brought  almost  conclusive  evidence  in  support  of 
Minto's  identification  of  Shakespeare's  rival  with  Chapman  —  a  conjec- 
ture with  which  I,  in  i8g6,  expressed  strong  sympathy  in  my  Shakspere 
and  his  Predecessors. 


vi  llBiograpl)^ 

position  as  a  playwright,  for  Meres  in  his  Palladis  Tamia  praises  him 
both  as  a  writer  of  tragedy  and  of  comedy.  We  know  from  Hens- 
lowe's  Diary  that  his  earliest  extant  comedy  The  Blitide  Begger  of 
Alexandria  was  produced  on  February  12,  1596,  and  that  for  the 
next  two  or  three  years  he  was  working  busily  for  this  enterprising 
manager.  An  Humerous  dayes  Myrth  (pr.  1599),  and  All  Fooles 
(pr.  1605)  under  the  earlier  title  of  TAe  World  Runs  on  Wheels,^ 
were  composed  during  this  period. 

Meanwhile  he  had  begun  the  work  with  which  his  name  is 
most  closely  linked,  his  translation  of  Homer.  The  first  instal- 
ment, entitled  Sea-ven  Bookes  of  the  Jliades  of  Homere,  Prince  of 
Poets,  was  published  in  1598,  and  was  dedicated  to  the  Earl  of 
Essex.  After  the  Earl's  execution  Chapman  found  a  yet  more 
powerful  patron,  for,  as  we  learn  from  the  letters  printed  recently 
in  The  At  hen  a  urn  { cf.  Bibliography,  sec.  iii),  he  was  appointed 
about  1604  "sewer  (i.  e.  cupbearer)  in  ordinary,"  to  Prince 
Henry,  eldest  son  of  James  I.  The  Prince  encouraged  him  to  pro- 
ceed with  his  translation,  and  about  1609  appeared  the  first  twelve 
books  of  the  Iliad  ( including  the  seven  formerly  published)  with 
a  fine  "Epistle  Dedicatory,"  to  "  the  high-born  Prince  of  men, 
Henry. "  In  1 6 1 1  the  version  of  the  Iliad  was  completed,  and  that 
of  the  Odyssey  was,  at  Prince  Henry's  desire,  now  taken  in  hand. 
But  the  untimely  death  of  the  Prince,  on  November  6th,  1612, 
dashed  all  Chapman's  hopes  of  receiving  the  anticipated  reward  of 
his  labours.  According  to  a  petition  which  he  addressed  to  the 
Privy  Council,  the  Prince  had  promised  him  on  the  conclusion  of 
his  translation  ;i^300,  and  "  uppon  his  deathbed  a  good  pension 
during  my  life."  Not  only  were  both  of  these  withheld,  but  he  was 
deprived  of  his  post  of  ' '  sewer  ' '  by  Prince  Charles.  Nevertheless 
he  completed  the  version  of  the  Odyssey  in  1 6 14,  and  in  161 6  he 
published  a  folio  volume  entitled  The  Whole  Works  of  Homer. 
The  translation,  in  spite  of  its  inaccuracies  and  its  "conceits,"  is, 
by  virtue  of  its  sustained  dignity  and  vigour,  one  of  the  noblest 
monuments  of  Elizabethan  genius. 

I  This  identification  seems  established  by  the  entry  in  Henslowe's 
Diary,  under  date  2  July  1599:  "•'  Lent  unto  thomas  Dowton  to  paye  Mf. 
Chapman,  in  full  paymente  for  his  booclce  called  the  world  rones  a 
wbelles,  and  now  all  foolles,  but  the  fooUe,  some  of  ...  .  xxxs." 


llBtograpl)^  vii 

By  1605,  if  not  earlier,  Chapman  had  resumed  his  work  for  the 
Stage.  In  that  year  he  wrote  conjointly  with  Marston  and  Jonson 
the  comedy  of  EustivarJ  Hoe.  On  account  of  some  passages  reflect- 
ing on  the  Scotch,  the  authors  were  imprisoned.  The  details  of  the 
affair  are  obscure.  According  to  Jonson,  in  his  conversation  later 
with  Drummond,  Chapman  and  Marston  were  responsible  for  the 
obnoxious  passages,  and  he  voluntarily  imprisoned  himself  with  them. 
But  in  one  of  the  recently  printed  letters,  which  apparently  refers 
to  this  episode,  Chapman  declares  that  he  and  Jonson  lie  under 
the  King's  displeasure  for  "two  clawses  and  both  of  them  not 
our  owne,"  i.  e.,  apparently,  written  by  Marston.'  However  this 
may  be,  the  offenders  were  soon  released,  and  Chapman  continued 
energetically  his  dramatic  work.  In  i  606  appeared  two  of  his  most 
elaborate  comedies,  TAe  Gentleman  Usher  and  Monsieur  £)'  Oli've, 
and  in  the  next  year  was  published  his  first  and  most  successful  trag- 
edy, Bussy  U'  Ambois.  In  1608  were  produced  two  connected  plays. 
The  Conspiracie  and  Tragedie  of  Charles,  Duke  of  Byron,  dealing 
with  recent  events  in  France,  and  based  upon  materials  in  E.  Grime- 
ston's  translation  (1607)  of  Jean  de  Serres'  History.  Again  Chap- 
man found  himself  in  trouble  with  the  authorities,  for  the  French 
ambassador,  offended  by  a  scene  in  which  Henry  IV's  Queen  was 
introduced  in  unseemly  fashion,  had  the  performance  of  the  plays 
stopped  for  a  time.  Chapman  had  to  go  into  hiding  to  avoid  arrest, 
and  when  he  came  out,  he  had  great  difficulty  in  getting  the  plays 
licensed  for  publication,  even  with  the  omission  of  the  offending 
episodes.  His  fourth  tragedy  based  on  French  history.  The  Re-venge 
of  Bussy  D" Ainbois,  appeared  in  161  3.  It  had  been  preceded  by 
two  comedies,  May-Day  (1611),  and  The  Widdoives  Tcares 
(161 2).  Possibly,  as  Mr.  Dobell  suggests  [Athenaum,  23  March, 
I901 ),  the  coarse  satire  of  the  latter  play  may  have  been  due  to  its 
author's  annoyance  at  the  apparent  refusal  of  his  suit  by  a  widow  to 
whom  some  of  the  recently  printed  letters  are  addressed.  In  1 61 3 
he  produced  his  Maske  of  the  Middle  Temple  and  Lyncolns  Inne, 
which  was  one  of  the  series  performed  in  honour  of  the  marriage 
of  the  Princess  Elizabeth  and  the  Elector  Palatine.  Another  hymen- 
eal work,  produced  on  a  much  less  auspicious  occasion,   was   an 

I   See  pp.  158-64,  Jonson's  Eastward  Hoe  and  jikhemist,  F.  E.  Schell- 
ing  (Belles-Lettres  Series,  1904). 


viii  llBiograpl)^ 

allegorical  poem,  Andromeda  Liberata,  celebrating  the  marriage  of 
the  Earl  of  Somerset  with  the  divorced  Lady  Essex  in  December, 
1613. 

The  year  16 14,  when  the  Odyssey  was  completed,  marks  the 
culminating  point  of  Chapman's  literary  activity.  Henceforward, 
partly  perhaps  owing  to  the  disappointment  of  his  hopes  through 
Prince  Henry's  death,  his  production  was  more  intermittent. 
Translations  of  the  Homeric  Hymns,  of  the  Georgicks  of  Hesiod, 
and  other  classical  writings,  mainly  occupy  the  period  tiU  1631. 
In  that  year  he  printed  another  tragedy,  Ctesar  and  Pompey,  which, 
however,  as  we  learn  from  the  dedication,  had  been  written  "  long 
since."  The  remaining  plays  with  which  his  name  has  been  con- 
nected did  not  appear  during  his  lifetime.  A  comedy,  The  Ball, 
licensed  in  1632,  but  not  published  till  1639,  has  the  names  of 
Chapman  and  Shirley  on  the  title-page,  but  the  latter  was  certainly 
its  main  author.  Another  play,  however,  issued  in  the  same  year, 
and  ascribed  to  the  same  hands,  The  Tragedie  of  Chabot,  Admiral 
of  France,  makes  the  impression,  from  its  subject-matter  and  its 
style,  of  being  chiefly  due  to  Chapman.  In  1654  two  tragedies, 
Alphonsus  Emperour  of  Germany  and  The  Revenge  for  Honour, 
were  separately  published  under  Chapman's  name.  Their  author- 
ship, however,  is  doubtful.  There  is  nothing  in  the  style  or  diction 
of  Alphonsus  which  resembles  Chapman's  undisputed  work,  and 
it  is  hard  to  believe  that  he  had  a  hand  in  it.  The  Re'venge  for 
Honour  is  on  an  Oriental  theme,  entirely  different  from  those 
handled  by  Chapman  in  his  other  tragedies,  and  the  versification  is 
marked  by  a  greater  frequency  of  feminine  endings  than  is  usual  with 
him;  but  phrases  and  thoughts  occur  which  may  be  paralleled  from 
his  plays,  and  the  work  may  be  from  his  hand. 

On  May  12,  1634,  he  died,  and  was  buried  in  the  churchyard 
of  St.  Giles's  in  the  Field,  where  his  friend  Inigo  Jones  erected  a 
monument  to  his  memory.  According  to  Wood,  he  was  a  person 
of  "  most  reverend  aspect,  religious  and  temperate,  qualities  rarely 
meeting  in  a  poet. "  Though  his  material  success  seems  to  have 
been  small,  he  gained  the  friendship  of  many  of  the  most  illustrious 
spirits  of  his  time  —  Essex,  Prince  Henry,  Bacon,  Jonson,  Webster, 
among  the  number  —  and  it  has  been  his  good  fortune  to  draw  in 
after  years  splendid  tributes  from  such  successors  in  the  poetic  art  as 
Keats  and  A.  C.  Swinburne. 


gjntrotiuctfon 


The  group  of  Chapman's  plays  based  upon  recent 
French  history,  to  which  Buss^  U*  Ambois  and  its  sequel 
belong,  forms  one  of  the  most  unique  memorials  of  the 
Elizabethan  drama.  The  playwrights  of  the  period 
were  profoundly  interested  in  the  annals  of  their  own 
country,  and  exploited  them  for  the  stage  with  a  magni- 
ficent indifference  to  historical  accuracy.  Gorboduc 
and  Locrine  were  as  real  to  them  as  any  Lancastrian 
or  Tudor  prince,  and  their  reigns  were  made  to  furnish 
salutary  lessons  to  sixteenth  century  "  magistrates." 
Scarcely  less  interesting  were  the  heroes  of  republican 
Greece  and  Rome  :  Cjesar,  Pompey,  and  Antony, 
decked  out  in  Elizabethan  garb,  were  as  familiar  to  the 
playgoers  of  the  time  as  their  own  national  heroes,  real 
or  legendary.  But  the  contemporary  history  of  conti- 
nental states  had  comparatively  little  attraction  for  the 
dramatists  of  the  period,  and  when  they  handled  it, 
they  usually  had  some  political  or  religious  end  in 
view.  Under  a  thin  veil  of  allegory,  Lyly  in  Midas 
gratified  his  audience  with  a  scathing  denunciation  of 
the  ambition  and  gold-hunger  of  Philip  II  of  Spain; 
and  half  a  century  later  Middleton  in  a  still  bolder  and 
more  transparent  allegory.  The  Game  of  Chess,  dared 
to  ridicule  on  the  stage  Philip's  successor,  and  his 
envoy,  Gondomar.  But  both  plays  were  suggested  by 
the  elements  of  friction  in  the  relations  of  England  and 
Spain. 


X  31ntroliuction 

French  history  also  supplied  material  to  some  of  the 
London  playwrights,  but  almost  exclusively  as  it  bore 
upon  the  great  conflict  between  the  forces  of  Roman 
Catholicism  and  Protestantism.  The  Masaker  of  France, 
which  Henslowe  mentions  as  having  been  played  on 
January  3,  I  592—3,  may  or  may  not  be  identical  with 
Marlowe's  The  Massacre  at  Paris,  printed  towards 
the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century,  but  in  all  probabil- 
ity it  expressed  similarly  the  burning  indignation  of 
Protestant  England  at  the  appalling  events  of  the  Eve 
of  St.  Bartholomew.  Whatever  Marlowe's  religious  or 
irreligious  views  may  have  been,  he  acted  on  this  occa- 
sion as  the  mouthpiece  of  the  vast  majority  of  his 
countrymen,  and  he  founded  on  recent  French  history 
a  play  which,  with  all  its  defects,  is  of  special  interest  to 
our  present  inquiry.  For  Chapman,  who  finished  Mar- 
lowe's incompleted  poem.  Hero  a  fid  Leatider,  must 
have  been  familiar  with  this  drama,  which  introduced 
personages  and  events  that  were  partly  to  reappear  in 
the  two  Bussy  plays.  A  brief  examination  of  The 
Massacre  at  Paris  will,  therefore,  help  to  throw  into 
relief  the  special  characteristics  of  Chapman's  dramas. 

It  opens  with  the  marriage,  in  1572,  of  Henry  of 
Navarre  and  Margaret,  sister  of  King  Charles  IX, 
which  was  intended  to  assuage  the  religious  strife.  But 
the  Duke  of  Guise,  the  protagonist  of  the  play,  is  de- 
termined to  counterwork  this  policy,  and  with  the  aid 
of  Catherine  de  Medicis,  the  Queen-Mother,  and  the 
Duke  of  Anjou  (afterwards  Henry  III),  he  arranges 
the  massacre  of  the  Huguenots.  Of  the  events  of  the 
fatal  night  we  get  a  number  of  glimpses,  including  the 


3IntroOuccion  xi 

murder  of  a  Protestant,  Seroune,  by  Mountsorrell 
(Chapman's  Montsurry),  who  is  represented  as  one 
of  the  Guise's  most  fanatical  adherents.  Charles  soon 
afterwards  dies,  and  is  succeeded  by  his  brother  Henry, 
but  "his  mind  runs  on  his  minions,"  and  Catherine 
and  the  Guise  wield  all  real  power.  But  there  is  one 
sphere  which  Guise  cannot  control  —  his  wife's  heart, 
which  is  given  to  Mugeroun,  one  of  the  "  minions  " 
of  the  King.  Another  of  the  minions,  Joyeux,  is  sent 
against  Henry  of  Navarre,  and  is  defeated  and  slain  ; 
but  Henry,  learning  that  Guise  has  raised  an  army 
against  his  sovereign  **  to  plant  the  Pope  and  Popelings 
in  the  realm,"  joins  forces  with  the  King  against  the 
rebel,  who  is  treacherously  murdered  and  dies  crying, 
"Five  la  messe !  perish  Huguenots!"  His  brother, 
the  Cardinal,  meets  a  similar  fate,  but  the  house  of  Lor- 
raine is  speedily  revenged  by  a  friar,  who  stabs  King 
Henry.  He  dies,  vowing  vengeance  upon  Rome,  and 
sending  messages  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  *'  whom  God 
hath  bless' d  for  hating  papistry." 

It  is  easy  to  see  how  a  play  on  these  lines  would 
have  appealed  to  an  Elizabethan  audience,  while  Mar- 
lowe, whether  his  religious  sympathies  were  engaged 
or  not,  realized  the  dramatic  possibilities  of  the  figure 
of  the  Guise,  one  of  the  lawlessly  aspiring  brother- 
hood that  had  so  irresistible  a  fascination  for  his  genius. 
But  it  is  much  more  difficult  to  understand  why,  soon 
after  the  accession  of  James  I,  Chapman  should  have 
gone  back  to  the  same  period  of  French  history,  and 
reintroduced  a  number  of  the  same  prominent  figures, 
Henry  III,  Guise,  his  Duchess,  and  Mountsorrell,  not 


xii  ^jntroUuction 

in  their  relation  to  great  political  and  religious  outbreaks, 
but  grouped  round  a  figure  who  can  scarcely  have  been 
very  familiar  to  the  English  theatre-going  public  —  Louis 
de  Clermont,  Bussy  d'Amboise.' 

This  personage  was  born  in  1549,  and  was  the 
eldest  son  of  Jacques  de  Clermont  d'Amboise,  seigneur 
de  Bussy  et  de  Saxe-Fontaine,  by  his  first  wife,  Cath- 
erine de  Beauvais.  He  followed  the  career  of  arms,  and 
in  I  568  we  hear  of  him  as  commandant  of  a  company. 
He  was  in  Paris  during  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew, 

1  Through  the  kindness  of  Professor  Baker  I  have  seen  an  unpublished 
paper  of  Mr.  P.  C.  Hoyt,  Instructor  in  Harvard  University,  which  first 
calls  attention  to  the  combined  suggestiveness  of  three  entries  in  Hens- 
lowe's  Diary  (Collier's  ed.)  for  any  discussion  of  the  date  of  Bussy 
D'jimhots.  In  Henslowe's  "  Enventorey  of  all  the  aparell  of  the  Lord 
Admeralles  men,  taken  the  13""  of  Marche  1598,"  is  an  item,  "  Perovi-es 
sewt,  which  W"  Sley  were."  {Henslowe's  Diary,  ed.  Collier,  p.  27;.) 
In  no  extant  play  save  Bussy  D'  Ambois  is  a  character  called  Pero  intro- 
duced. Moreover,  Henslowe  (pp.  iij  and  no)  has  the  following  entries: 
"  Lent  unto  W™  Borne,  the  ig  of  novembr  1598,  ...  the  some  of  xijs, 
w"""  he  sayd  yt'was  to  Imbrader  his  hatte  for  the  Gwisse.  Lent  W™ 
Birde,  ales  Borne,  the  27  of  novembr,  to  bye  a  payer  of  sylke  stockens, 
to  playe  the  Gwisse  in  xxs."  Taken  by  themselves  these  two  allusions 
to  the  "  Gwisse  "  might  refer,  as  Collier  supposed,  to  Marlowe's  The 
Massacre  at  Paris.  But  when  combined  with  the  mention  of  Pero 
earlier  in  the  year,  they  may  equally  well  refer  to  the  Guise  in  Buss^^ 
D'Amhois.  Can  Bussy  D' Amhois  have  been  the  unnamed  "•  tragedie 
by  Chapman,  for  the  first  three  Acts  of  which  Henslowe  lent  him  iij'' on 
Jan.  4,  1598,  followed  by  a  similar  sum  on  Jan.  S'h,  "•  in  fuUe  payment  for 
his  tragedie  ! "  The  words  which  Dekker  quotes  in  Satiromastix,  Sc.  7 
(1602),"  For  trusty  D'Amboys  now  the  deed  is  done,"  seem  to  be  a  line 
from  a  play  introducing  D'Ambois.  If,  however,  the  play  was  written 
circa  1598,  it  must  have  been  considerably  revised  after  the  accession  of 
James  I  to  the  throne,  for  the  allusions  to  Elizabeth  as  an  "  old  Queene  '_' 
(i,  2,  12),  and  to  Bussy  as  being  mistaken  for  "  a  knight  of  the  new  edi- 
tion," must  have  been  written  after  the  accession  of  James  I  {Chronicle 
of  the  English  Drama,  i,  59).  But  Mr,  Fleay's  further  statement  that  the 
words,  "  Tis  leape  yeere  "  (i,  2,  85),  "  must  apply  to  the  date  of  produc- 
tion," and  "  fix  the  time  of  representation  to  1604,"  is  only  an  ingenious 
conjecture.  If  the  words  "  He  be  your  ghost  to  haunt  you,"  etc.  (i,  2, 
145-244),  refer  to  Macbeth,  as  I  have  suggested  in  the  note  on  the  pass- 
age, they  point  to  a  revision  of  the  play  not  earlier  than  the  latter  part 
of  1606. 


31ntroDuction  xiii 

and  took  advantage  of  it  to  settle  a  private  teud.    He 
had  had  a  prolonged  lawsuit  with  his  cousin  Antoine  de 
Clermont,  a  prominent  Huguenot,  and  follower  of  the 
King  of  Navarre.    While  his  rival  was  fleeing  for  safety 
he  had  the  misfortune  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  Bussy, 
who  dispatched  him   then  and   there.     He  afterwards 
distinguished  himself  in  various  operations  against  the 
Huguenots,  and  by  his  bravery  and  accomplishments 
won  the  favour  of  the  Duke  of  Anjou,  who,  after  the 
accession  of  Henry    III   in    1575,    was   heir   to  the 
throne.     The   Duke    in   this  year  appointed  him  his 
couronell,  and  henceforward  he  passed  into  his  serv- 
ice.   In  1576,  as  a  reward  for  negotiating  '^  la  paix 
de  Monsieur  "  with  the  Huguenots,  the  Duke  received 
the  territories  of  Anjou,  Touraine,  and  Berry,  and  at 
once  appointed  Bussy  governor  of  Anjou.     In  Novem- 
ber the  new  governor  arrived  at  Angers,  the  capital  of 
the  Duchy,  and  was  welcomed  by  the  citizens;  but  the 
disorders  and  exactions  of  his  troops  soon  aroused  the 
anger  of  the  populace,  and  the  King  had  to  interfere  in 
their  behalf,  though  for  a  time  Bussy  set  his  injunctions 
at  defiance.    At  last  he  retired  from  the  city,  and  re- 
joined the  Duke,  in  close  intercourse  with  whom  he 
remained  during    the   following   years,   accompanying 
him  finally  on  his  unsuccessfiil  expedition  to  the  Low 
Countries  in  the  summer  of  1578.    On  Anjou' s  return 
to  court  in  January,  1579,  Bussy,  who  seems  to  have 
alienated  his  patron  by  his  presumptuous  behaviour,  did 
not  go  with  him,  but  took  up  his  residence  again  in 
the  territory  of  Anjou.    He  was  less  occupied,  however, 
with  his  official  duties  than  with  his  criminal  passion 


xiv  JlntroDuction 

for  Fran^oise  de  Maridort,  wife  of  the  Comte  de  Mon- 
soreau,  who  had  been  appointed  grand-veneur  to  the 
Duke.  The  favorite  mansion  of  the  Comte  was  at 
La  Coutanciere,  and  it  was  here  that  Bussy  ardently 
pursued  his  intrigue  with  the  Countess.  But  a  jocular 
letter  on  the  subject,  which  he  sent  to  the  Duke  of 
Anjou,  was  shown,  according  to  the  historian,  De  Thou, 
by  the  Duke  to  the  King,  who,  in  his  turn,  passed  it 
on  to  Montsoreau.  The  latter  thereupon  forced  his  wife 
to  make  a  treacherous  assignation  with  Bussy  at  the 
chateau  on  the  night  of  the  1 8'*^  of  August,  and  on  his 
appearance,  with  his  companion  in  pleasure,  Claude 
Colasseau,  they  were  both  assassinated  by  the  retainers 
of  the  infuriated  husband. 

The  tragic  close  of  Bussy' s  life  has  given  his  career 
an  interest  disproportionate  to  his  historical  importance. 
But  the  drama  of  La  Coutanciere  was  only  the  final 
episode  in  a  career  crowded  with  romantic  incidents. 
The  annalists  and  memoir-writers  of  the  period  prove 
that  Bussy' s  exploits  as  a  duellist  and  a  gallant  had  im- 
pressed vividly  the  imagination  of  his  contemporaries. 
Margaret  of  Valois,  the  wife  of  Henry  IV,  Brantome, 
who  was  a  relative  and  friend  of  D'Ambois,  and 
L'Estoile,  the  chronicler  and  journalist,  are  amongst 
those  who  have  left  us  their  impressions  of  this  beau 
sabreur.  Chapman  must  have  had  access  to  memorials 
akin  to  theirs  as  a  foundation  for  his  drama,  and  though, 
for  chronological  reasons,  they  cannot  have  been  util- 
ized by  him,  they  illustrate  the  materials  which  he  em- 
ployed. 

The  first  two  Acts  of  the  play  are  chiefly  occupied 


^Introduction  xv 

with  Bussy's  arrival  at  court,  his  entry  into  the  service 
of  Monsieur,  his  quarrel  with  Guise,  and  the  duel 
between  himself  and  Barrisor,  with  two  supporters  on 
either  side.  Brantome,  in  his  Discours  sur  les  Duels, 
relates  from  personal  knowledge  an  incident  between 
Guise  and  Bussy,  which  took  place  shortly  after  the 
accession  of  Henry  III.  The  Duke  took  occasion  of  a 
royal  hunting  party  to  draw  Bussy  alone  into  the  forest, 
and  to  demand  certain  explanations  of  him.  D'Ambois 
gave  these  in  a  satisfactory  manner;  but  had  he  not 
done  so,  the  Duke  declared,  in  spite  of  their  difference 
of  rank,  he  would  have  engaged  in  single  combat  with 
him.  The  explanations  demanded  may  well  have  con- 
cerned the  honour  of  the  Duchess,  and  we  get  at  any 
rate  a  hint  for  the  episode  in  Chapman's  play  (i,  ii, 
57-185). 

For  the  duelling  narrative  (11,  i,  35-137)  we  get 
considerably  more  than  a  hint.  Our  chief  authority  is 
again  Brantome,  in  another  work,  the  Discours  sur  les 
Couronnels  de  V  infanterie  de  France.  He  tells  us  that  he 
was  with  Bussy  at  a  play,  when  a  dispute  arose  between 
him  and  the  Marquis  of  Saint-Phal  as  to  whether  the 
jet  embroidery  on  a  certain  muff  represented  xx  or  yy. 
The  quarrel  was  appeased  for  the  time  being,  but  on 
the  following  day  Bussy,  meeting  Saint-Phal  at  the 
house  of  a  lady  with  whom  he  had  had  relations,  and 
who  was  now  the  mistress  of  the  Marquis,  renewed 
the  dispute.  An  encounter  took  place  between  Bussy, 
supported  by  five  or  six  gentlemen,  and  Saint-Phal, 
assisted  by  an  equal  number  of  Scotchmen  of  the 
Roval  Guard,  one  of  whom  wounded   Bussv's  hand. 


xvi  iflntroOuction 

Thereupon  Saint-Phal  withdrew,  but  his  fire-eating 
rival  was  anxious  at  all  hazards  for  another  encounter. 
It  was  only  with  the  greatest  difficulty,  as  Brantome 
relates  in  entertaining  fashion,  that  the  King  was  able 
to  bring  about  a  reconciliation  between  them.  Such  an 
episode,  reported  with  exaggeration  of  details,  might 
well  have  suggested  the  narrative  in  Act  ii  of  the 
triple  encounter. 

Brantome  further  relates  a  midnight  attack  upon 
Bussy,  about  a  month  later,  by  a  number  of  his  jealous 
rivals,  when  he  had  a  narrow  escape  from  death.  Of  this 
incident  another  account  has  been  given  by  Margaret 
of  Valois  in  her  Memoir es.  Margaret  and  her  brother, 
the  Duke  of  Anjou,  were  devoted  to  one  another,  and 
Bussy  was  for  a  time  a  paramour  of  the  Queen  of  Na- 
varre. Though  she  denies  the  liaison,  she  says  of  him 
that  there  was  not  ''en  ce  Steele- 1  a  de  son  sexe  et  de  sa 
qualiie  rien  de  semblable  en  valeur,  reputation,  grace, 
et  esprit.''''  Margaret,  L'Estoile,  and  Brantome  all 
relate  similar  incidents  during  Bussy' s  sojourn  at  court 
in  the  year  1578,  and  the  last-named  adds: 

"  Si  je  "voulois  raconter  toutes  /«  querelles  quil  a  cues,  j'aurois 
beaucoup  affaire  ;  helas  !  il  en  a  trap  eu,  et  toutes  les  a  Jesmeslees 
a  son  trh-grand  honneur  et  heur.  II  en  "vouloit  sowvant  par  trap  a 
plusieurs,  sans  aucun  respect  ,•  je  luy  ay  diet  cent  fois  ;  mais  il  se 
fioit  tant  en  sa  -valeur  quil  mesprisoit  tous  les  conseils  de  ses  amis  .  .  . 
Dieu  ayt  son  ame  !  Mais  il  mourut  {^quand  il  trespassa^  un  preux 
tr'es  -vaillant  et  g'en'ereux. 

It  is  plain,  therefore,  that  Chapman  in  his  picture 
of  Bussy' s  quarrels  and  encounters-at-arms  was  devi- 
ating little,  except  in  details  of  names  and  dates,  from 


idntroOuction  xvii 

the  actual  facts  of  history.  Bussy's  career  was  so  ro- 
mantic that  it  was  impossible  for  even  the  most  in- 
ventive dramatist  to  embellish  it.  This  was  especially 
true  of  its  closmg  episode,  which  occupies  the  later 
acts  of  Chapman's  drama  —  the  intrigue  with  the 
Countess  of  Montsoreau  and  the  tragic  fate  which  it 
involved.  It  is  somewhat  singular  that  the  earliest  nar- 
ratives of  the  event  which  have  come  down  to  us  were 
pubUshed  subsequently  to  the  play.  The  statement, 
accepted  for  a  long  time,  that  De  Thou's  His  tor  ice  sui 
Temper  is  was  the  basis  of  Chapman's  tragedy,  has 
been  completely  disproved.  The  passage  in  which  he 
narrates  the  story  of  Bussy's  death  does  not  occur  in 
the  earlier  editions  of  his  work,  and  first  found  its  way 
into  the  issue  published  at  Geneva  in  1620.  A  similar 
narrative  appeared  in  the  following  year  in  L'Estoile's 
Journal,  which  first  saw  the  light  in  1621,  ten  years 
after  its  author's  death.  But  under  a  thin  disguise  there 
had  already  appeared  a  detailed  history  of  Bussy's  last 
amour  and  his  fall,  though  this,  too,  was  later  than 
Chapman's  drama.  A  novelist,  Francois  de  Rosset,  had 
published  a  volume  of  tales  entitled  Les  Histoires 
Tragiques  de  Nostre  Temps.  The  earliest  known  edi- 
tion is  one  of  161  5,  though  it  was  preceded,  probably 
not  long,  by  an  earlier  edition  full  of  "fautes  insup- 
portables,'^  for  which  Rosset  apologizes.  He  is  careful 
to  state  in  his  preface  that  he  is  relating  '*  des  histoires 
autant  veritables  que  tristes  et  funestes.  Les  noms  de 
la  pluspart  des  personnages  sont  seulement  desguisez  en 
ce  Theatre,  a  Jin  de  n'  affliger  pas  tant  les  families  de 
ceux  qui  en  ont  donn'e  le  sujet.''^    The  fate  of  Bussy 


xviii  3flntrot)uctton 

forms  the  subject  of  the  seventeenth  history,  entitled 
"De  la  mart  pitoyable  du  valeureux  Lysis. ''^  Lysis  was 
the  name  under  which  Margaret  of  Valois  celebrated 
the  memory  of  her  former  lover  in  a  poem  entitled 
**  U esprit  de  Lysis  disant  adieu  a  sa  Flore.''''  But  apart 
from  this  proof  of  identification,  the  details  given  by 
Rosset  are  so  full  that  there  can  be  no  uncertainty  in 
the  matter.  Indeed,  in  some  of  his  statements,  as  in  his 
account  of  the  first  meeting  between  the  lovers,  Rosset 
probably  supplies  facts  unrecorded  by  the  historians  of 
the  period. 

From  a  comparison  of  these  more  or  less  contem- 
porary records  it  is  evident  that,  whatever  actual  source 
Chapman  may  have  used,  he  has  given  in  many  re- 
spects a  faithflil  portrait  of  the  historical  Bussy  D'Am- 
bois.  It  happened  that  at  the  time  of  Bussy' s  death 
the  Duke  of  Anjou,  his  patron,  was  in  London,  laying 
ineffective  siege  to  the  hand  of  Elizabeth.  This  coin- 
cidence may  have  given  wider  currency  in  England  to 
Bussy' s  tragic  story  than  would  otherwise  have  been 
the  case.  But  a  quarter  of  a  century  later  this  adven- 
titious interest  would  have  evaporated,  and  the  success 
of  Chapman's  play  would  be  due  less  to  its  theme  than 
to  its  qualities  of  style  and  construction.  To  these  we 
must  therefore  now  turn. 

With  Chapman's  enthusiasm  for  classical  literature, 
it  was  natural  that  he  should  be  influenced  by  classical 
models,  even  when  handling  a  thoroughly  modern  sub- 
ject. His  Bussy  is,  in  certain  aspects,  the  miles  glorio- 
sus  of  Latin  drama,  while  in  the  tragic  crisis  of  his  fate 
he  demonstrably  borrows,  as  is  shown  in  this  edition 


31ntroDuction  xix 

for  the  first  time,  the  accents  of  the  Senecan  Hercules 
on  Mount  CEta  (cf.  notes  on  v,  iv,  loo  and  109). 
Hence  the  technique  of  the  work  is  largely  of  the  semi- 
Senecan  type  with  which  Kyd  and  his  school  had 
familiarized  the  English  stage.  Thus  Bussy's  opening 
monologue  serves  in  some  sort  as  a  Prologue  ;  the  nar- 
rative by  the  Nuntius  in  Act  11,  i,  35-137,  is  in  the 
most  approved  classical  manner  ;  an  Umbra  or  Ghost 
makes  its  regulation  entrance  in  the  last  Act,  and 
though  the  accumulated  horrors  of  the  closing  scenes 
violate  every  canon  of  classical  art,  they  had  become 
traditional  in  the  semi-Senecan  type  of  play,  and  were 
doubtless  highly  acceptable  to  the  audiences  of  the 
period.  But  while  the  Senecan  and  semi-Senecan 
methods  had  their  dangers,  their  eifect  on  English 
dramatists  was  in  so  far  salutary  that  they  necessitated 
care  in  plot-construction.  And  it  is  doubtful  whether 
Chapman  has  hitherto  received  due  credit  for  the  in- 
genuity and  skill  with  which  he  has  woven  into  the 
texture  of  his  drama  a  number  of  varied  threads. 
Bussy's  life  was,  as  has  been  shown,  crowded  with 
incidents,  and  the  final  catastrophe  at  La  Coutanciere 
had  no  direct  relation  with  the  duels  and  intrigues  of 
his  younger  days  at  Court.  Chapman,  however,  has 
connected  the  earlier  and  the  later  episodes  with  much 
ingenuity.  Departing  from  historical  truth,  he  repre- 
sents Bussy  as  a  poor  adventurer  at  Court,  whose  for- 
tunes are  entirely  made  by  the  patronage  of  Monsieur. 
His  sudden  elevation  turns  his  head,  and  he  insults  the 
Duke  of  Guise  by  courting  his  wife  before  his  face, 
thus  earning  his  enmity,  and  exciting  at  the  same  time 


XX  31ntroliuction 

the  ridicule  of  the  other  courtiers.  Hence  springs  the 
encounter  with  Barrisor  and  his  companions,  and  this 
is  made  to  serve  as  an  introduction  to  the  amour  be- 
tween Bussy  and  Tamyra,  as  Chapman  chooses  to  call 
the  Countess  of  Montsurry.  For  Barrisor,  we  are 
told  (ii,  ii,  202  ff. ),  had  long  wooed  the  Countess, 
and  the  report  was  spread  that  the  "  main  quarrel  " 
between  him  and  Bussy  '<  grew  about  her  love,"  Bar- 
risor thinking  that  D'Ambois's  courtship  of  the  Duchess 
of  Guise  was  really  directed  towards  **  his  elected 
mistress."  On  the  advice  of  a  Friar  named  Comolet, 
to  whom  Chapman  strangely  enough  assigns  the  repuls- 
ive role  of  go-between,  Bussy  wins  his  way  at  night 
into  Tamyra' s  chamber  on  the  plea  that  he  has  come 
to  reassure  her  that  she  is  in  no  way  guilty  of  Barrisor's 
blood.  Thus  the  main  theme  of  the  play  is  linked  with 
the  opening  incidents,  and  the  action  from  first  to  last 
is  laid  in  Paris,  whither  the  closing  scenes  of  Bussy' s 
career  are  shifted.  By  another  ingenious  departure  from 
historical  truth  the  Duke  of  Anjou,  to  whom  Bussy 
owes  his  rise,  is  represented  as  the  main  agent  in  his 
fall.  He  is  angered  at  the  favour  shown  by  the  King 
to  the  follower  whom  he  had  raised  to  serve  his  own 
ends,  and  he  conspires  with  Guise  for  his  overthrow. 
He  is  the  more  eagerly  bent  upon  this  when  he  dis- 
covers through  Tamyra' s  waiting- woman  that  the 
Countess,  whose  favours  he  has  vainly  sought  to  win, 
has  granted  them  to  Bussy.  It  is  he  who,  by  means  of 
a  paper,  convinces  Montsurry  of  his  wife's  guilt,  and  it 
is  he,  together  with  Guise,  who  suggests  to  the  Count 
the  stratagem  by  which  Tamyra  is  forced  to  decoy  her 


3IncroDuction  xxi 

paramour  to  his  doom.  All  this  is  deftly  contrived  and 
does  credit  to  Chapman's  dramatic  craftsmanship.  It 
is  true  that  the  last  two  Acts  are  spun  out  with  super- 
natural episodes  of  a  singularly  unconvincing  type. 
The  Friar's  invocation  of  Behemoth,  who  proves  a 
most  unserviceable  spirit,  and  the  vain  attempts  of  this 
scoundrelly  ecclesiastic's  ghost  to  shield  D'Ambois 
from  his  fate,  strike  us  as  wofully  crude  and  mechanical 
excursions  into  the  occult.  But  they  doubtless  served 
their  turn  with  audiences  who  had  an  insatiable  craving 
for  such  manifestations,  and  were  not  particular  as  to 
the  precise  form  they  took. 

In  point  of  character- drawing  the  play  presents  a 
more  complex  problem.  Bussy  is  a  typically  Renais- 
sance hero  and  appealed  to  the  sympathies  of  an  age 
which  set  store  above  all  things  on  exuberant  vitality 
and  prowess,  and  was  readier  than  our  own  to  allow 
them  full  rein.  The  King  seems  to  be  giving  voice  to 
Chapman's  conception  of  Bussy' s  character,  when  he 
describes  him  in  iii,  ii,  90  if.  as 

"  A  man  so  good  that  only  would  uphold 
Man  in  his  native  noblesse,  from  whose  fall 
All  our  dissentions  arise,"  &c. 

And  in  certain  aspects  Bussy  does  not  come  far  short 
ot  the  ideal  thus  pictured.  His  bravery,  versatility, 
frankness,  and  readiness  of  speech  are  all  vividly  por- 
trayed, while  his  mettlesome  temper  and  his  arrogance 
are  alike  essential  to  his  role,  and  are  true  to  the  record 
of  the  historical  D'Ambois.  But  there  is  a  coarseness 
of  fibre   in   Chapman's   creation,  an   occasional    foul- 


xxii  31ntroUuction 

mouthed  ribaldry  of  utterance  which  robs  him  of  sym- 
pathetic charm.  He  has  in  him  more  of  the  swash- 
buckler and  the  bully  than  of  the  courtier  and  the 
cavalier.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  one  cannot  help 
feeling,  would  have  invested  him  with  more  refinement 
and  grace,  and  would  have  given  a  tenderer  note  to 
the  love-scenes  between  him  and  Tamyra.  Bussy  takes 
the  Countess's  affections  so  completely  by  storm,  and 
he  ignores  so  entirely  the  rights  of  her  husband,  that  it  is 
difficult  to  accord  him  the  measure  of  sympathy  in  his 
fall,  which  the  fate  of  a  tragic  hero  should  evoke. 

Tamyra  appeals  more  to  us,  because  we  see  in  her 
more  of  the  conflict  between  passion  and  moral  obli- 
gation, which  is  the  essence  of  drama.  Her  scornful 
rejection  of  the  advances  of  Monsieur  (ii,  ii),  though 
her  husband  palliates  his  conduct  as  that  of  "  a  bachelor 
and  a  courtier,  I,  and  a  prince,"  proves  that  she  is  no 
light  o'  love,  and  that  her  surrender  to  Bussy  is  the 
result  of  a  sudden  and  overmastering  passion.  Even  in 
the  moment  of  keenest  expectation  she  is  torn  between 
conflicting  emotions  (ii,  ii,  169-182),  and  after  their 
first  interview,  Bussy  takes  her  to  task  because  her 

' '  Conscience  is  too  nice, 
And  bites  too  hotly  of  the  Puritane  spice." 

But  she  masters  her  scruples  sufficiently  to  play  the 
thorough -going  dissembler  when  she  meets  her  hus- 
band, and  she  keeps  up  the  pretence  when  she  declares 
to  Bussy  before  the  Court  (in,  ii,  138),  *♦  Y'are 
one  I  know  not,"  and  speaks  of  him  vaguely  in  a 
later  scene  as    **  the  man."     So,    too,    when    Mont- 


^IntroDuction  xxiii 

surry  first  tells  her  of  the  suspicions  which  Monsieur 
has  excited  in  him,  she  protests  with  artfully  calcu- 
lated indignation  against  the  charge  of  wrong-doing 
with  this  "serpent."  But  the  brutal  and  deliberate 
violence  of  her  husband  when  he  knows  the  truth, 
and  the  perfidious  meanness  with  which  he  makes  her 
the  reluctant  instrument  of  her  lover's  ruin,  win  back 
for  her  much  of  our  alienated  sympathy.  Yet  at  the 
close  her  position  is  curiously  equivocal.  It  is  at  her 
prayer  that  Bussy  has  spared  Montsurry  when  "  he 
hath  him  down  "  in  the  final  struggle  ;  but  when  her 
lover  is  mortally  wounded  by  a  pistol  shot,  she  implores 
his  pardon  for  her  share  in  bringing  him  to  his  doom. 
And  when  the  Friar's  ghost  seeks  to  reconcile  husband 
and  wife,  the  former  is  justified  in  crying  ironically 
(v,  iv,  163-64): 

"  See  how  she  merits  this,  still  kneeling  by, 
And  mourning  his  fall,  more  than  her  own  fault  ! " 

Montsurry's  portraiture,  indeed,  suffers  from  the  same 
lack  of  consistency  as  his  wife's.  In  his  earlier  rela- 
tions with  her  he  strikes  a  tenderer  note  than  is  heard 
elsewhere  in  the  play,  and  his  first  outburst  of  fury, 
when  his  suspicions  are  aroused,  springs,  like  Othello's, 
from  the  depth  of  his  love  and  trust  (iv,  i,  169-70): 

"  My  whole  heart  is  wounded, 
When  any  least  thought  in  you  is  but  touch'd." 

But  there  is  nothing  of  Othello's  noble  agony  of  soul, 
nor  of  his  sense  that  he  is  carrying  out  a  solemn  judi- 
cial act  on  the  woman  he  still  loves,  in  Montsurry's 
long-drawn  torture  of  his  wife.    Indeed  a  comparison 


xxiv  jIlntroDuction 

of  the  episodes  brings  into  relief  the  restraint  and  purity 
of  Shakespeare's  art  when  handling  the  most  terrible  of 
tragic  themes.  Yet  the  Moor  himself  might  have  ut- 
tered Montsurry's  cry  (v,  i,  183-85), 

"  Here,  here  was  she 
That  was  a  whole  world  without  spot  to  me, 
Though  now  a  world  of  spot. " 

And  there  is  something  of  pathetic  dignity  in  his  final 
forgiveness  of  his  wife,  coupled  with  the  declaration 
that  his  honour  demands  that  she  must  fly  his  house 
for  ever. 

Monsieur  and  the  Guise  are  simpler  types.  The 
former  is  the  ambitious  villain  of  quality,  chafing  at  the 
thought  that  there  is  but  a  thread  betwixt  him  and  a 
crown,  and  prepared  to  compass  his  ends  by  any  means 
that  fall  short  of  the  actual  killing  of  the  King.  It  is  as 
a  usefiil  adherent  of  his  faction  that  he  elevates  Bussy, 
and  when  he  finds  him  favoured  by  Henry  he  ruthlessly 
strikes  him  down,  all  the  more  readily  that  he  is  his 
successful  rival  for  Tamyra's  love.  He  is  the  typical 
Renaissance  politician,  whose  characteristics  are  ex- 
pounded with  characteristically  vituperative  energy  by 
Bussy  in  in,  ii,  439-94. 

Beside  this  arch-villain,  the  Guise,  aspiring  and  fac- 
tious though  he  be,  falls  into  a  secondary  place.  Prob- 
ably Chapman  did  not  care  to  elaborate  a  figure  of 
whom  Marlowe  had  given  so  powerfiil  a  sketch  in  the 
Massacre  at  Paris.  The  influence  of  the  early  play 
may  also  be  seen  in  the  handling  of  the  King,  who  is 
portrayed  with  an   indulgent  pen,  and  who  reappears 


31ntroDuction  xxv 

in  the  role  of  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  the  English 
Queen  and  Court.  The  other  personages  in  the  drama 
are  colourless,  though  Chapman  succeeds  in  creating 
the  general  atmosphere  of  a  frivolous  and  dissolute  so- 
ciety. 

But  the  plot  and  portraiture  in  Buss^  W  Ambois  are 
both  less  distinctive  than  the  "full  and  heightened  " 
style,  to  w^hich  w^as  largely  due  its  popularity  with  read- 
ers and  theatre-goers  of  its  period,  but  which  was  after- 
wards to  bring  upon  it  such  severe  censure,  when  taste 
had  changed.  Dryden's  onslaught  in  his  Dedication  to 
the  Spanish  Friar  (1681)  marks  the  full  turn  of  the 
tide.  The  passage  is  familiar,  but  it  must  be  reproduced 
here  : 

"  I  have  sometimes  wondered,  in  the  reading,  what  has  become 
of  those  glaring  colours  which  annoyed  me  in  Buay  D'  Ambois  upon 
the  theatre  ;  but  when  I  had  taken  up  what  I  supposed  a  fallen  star, 
I  found  I  had  been  cozened  with  a  jelly  ;  nothing  but  a  cold  dull 
mass,  which  glittered  no  longer  than  it  was  shooting  ;  a  dwarfish 
thought,  dressed  up  in  gigantic  words,  repetition  in  abundance,  loose- 
ness of  expression,  and  gross  hyperboles  ;  the  sense  of  one  line  ex- 
panded prodigiously  into  ten  ;  and,  to  sum  up  all,  uncorrect  English, 
and  a  hideous  mingle  of  false  poetry  and  true  nonsense  ;  or,  at  best, 
a  scantling  of  wit,  which  lay  gasping  for  life,  and  groaning  beneath  a 
heap  of  rubbish.  A  famous  modern  poet  used  to  sacrifice  every 
year  a  Statius  to  Virgil's  manes;  and  I  have  indignation  enough  to 
burn  a  D^  Ambois  annually  to  the  memory  of  Jonson." 

Dryden's  critical  verdicts  are  never  lightly  to  be  set 
aside.  He  is  singularly  shrewd  and  unprejudiced  in  his 
judgements,  and  has  a  remarkable  faculty  of  hitting  the 
right  nail  on  the  head.  But  Chapman,  in  whom  the 
barbarian  and  the  pedant  were  so  strongly  commingled. 


xxvi  ^IntroDuction 

was  a  type  that  fell  outside  the  wide  range  of  Dryden's 
appreciation.  The  Restoration  writer  fails,  in  the  first 
place,  to  recognize  that  Bussy  W  Ambois  is  pitched 
advisedly  from  first  to  last  in  a  high  key.  Throughout 
the  drama  men  and  women  are  playing  for  great  stakes. 
No  one  is  ever  at  rest.  Action  and  passion  are  both  at 
fever  heat.  We  move  in  an  atmosphere  of  duels  and 
state  intrigues  by  day,  of  assignations  and  murders  by 
night.  Even  the  subordinate  personages  in  the  drama, 
the  stewards  and  waiting- women,  partake  of  the  restless 
spirit  of  their  superiors.  They  are  constantly  arguing, 
quarrelling,  gossiping  —  their  tongues  and  wits  are  al- 
ways on  the  move.  Thus  Chapman  aimed  throughout 
at  energy  of  expression  at  all  costs.  To  this  he  sacrificed 
beauty  of  phrase  and  rhythm,  even  lucidity.  He  pushed 
it  often  to  exaggerated  extremes  of  coarseness  and  riot- 
ous fancy.  He  laid  on  "  glaring  colours  "  till  eye  and 
brain  are  fatigued.  To  this  opening  phrase  of  Dryden 
no  exception  can  be  taken.  But  can  his  further  charges 
stand  ?  Is  it  true  to  say  of  Bussy  U  Ambois  that  it  is 
characterised  by  "dwarfish thought  dressed  up  in  gigantic 
words,"  that  it  is  **  a  hideous  mingle  of  false  poetry 
and  true  nonsense  ' '  ?  The  accusation  of  **  nonsense  " 
recoils  upon  its  maker.  Involved,  obscure,  inflated  as 
Chapman's  phrasing  not  infrequently  is,  it  is  not  mere 
rhodomontade,  sound,  and  fury,  signifying  nothing. 
There  are  some  passages  (as  the  Notes  testify)  where 
the  thread  of  his  meaning  seems  to  disappear  amidst  his 
fertile  imagery,  but  even  here  one  feels  not  that  sense  is 
lacking,  but  that  one  has  failed  to  find  the  clue  to  the 
zigzag  movements  of  Chapman's  brain.    Nor  is  it  fair 


3|ntroDuctiou  xxvii 

to  speak  of  Chapman  as  dressing  up  dwarfish  thoughts 
in  stilted  phrases.  There  is  not  the  slightest  tendency  in 
the  play  to  spin  out  words  to  hide  a  poverty  of  ideas; 
in  fact  many  of  the  difficulties  spring  from  excessive 
condensation.  Where  Chapman  is  really  assailable  is 
in  a  singular  incontinence  of  imagery.  Every  idea  that 
occurs  to  him  brings  with  it  a  plethora  of  illustrations, 
in  the  way  of  simile,  metaphor,  or  other  figure  of  speech; 
he  seems  impotent  to  check  the  exuberant  riot  of  his 
fancy  till  it  has  exhausted  its  whole  store.  The  under- 
lying thought  in  many  passages,  though  not  deserving 
Dryden's  contemptuous  epithet,  is  sufficiently  obvious. 
Chapman  was  not  dowered  with  the  penetrating  imag- 
ination that  reveals  as  by  a  lightning  flash  unsuspected 
depths  of  human  character  or  of  moral  law.  But  he  has 
the  gnomic  faculty  that  can  convey  truths  of  general 
experience  in  aphoristic  form,  and  he  can  wind  into 
a  debatable  moral  issue  with  adroit  casuistry.  Take  for 
instance  the  discussion  (ii,  i,  149-79)  on  the  legiti- 
macy of  private  vengeance,  or  (in,  i,  10—30)  on  the 
nature  and  effect  of  sin,  or  (v,  ii)  on  Nature's  "  blind- 
ness" in  her  workings.  In  lighter  vein,  but  winged 
with  the  shafts  of  a  caustic  humour  are  Bussy's  invectives 
against  courtly  practices  (i,  i,  84-104)  and  hypocrisy 
in  high  places  (in,  ii,  25-59),  while  the  "  flyting  " 
between  him  and  Monsieur  is  perhaps  the  choicest  speci- 
men of  Elizabethan  "  Billingsgate  "  that  has  come  down 
to  us.  It  was  a  versatile  pen  that  could  turn  from 
passages  like  these  to  the  epic  narrative  of  the  duel, 
or  Tamyra's  lyric  invocation  of  the  "peaceful  regents 
of  the  night"  (n,  ii,  i  58),  or  Bussy's  stately  elegy  upon 


XXV  iii  31l^t>^ODUCtion 

himself,   as    he    dies    standing,    propped    on    his    true 
sword. 

It  can  only  have  been  the  ingrained  prejudice  of  the 
Restoration  period  against  "metaphysical  "  verse  that 
deadened  Dryden's  ear  to  the  charm  of  such  passages 
as  these.  Another  less  notable  poet  and  playwright  of 
the  time  showed  more  discrimination.  This  was 
Thomas  D'Urfey,  who  in  1691  brought  out  a  revised 
version  of  the  play  at  the  Theatre  Royal.  In  a  dedica- 
tion to  Lord  Carlisle  which  he  prefixed  to  this  version, 
on  its  publication  in  the  same  year,  he  testifies  to  the 
great  popularity  of  the  play  after  the  reopening  of  the 
theatres. 

' '  About  sixteen  years  since,  when  first  my  good  or  ill  stars 
ordained  me  a  Knight  Errant  in  this  fairy  land  of  poetry,  I  saw  the 
Bussy  d"  Amhoii  of  Mr.  Chapman  acted  by  Mr.  Hart,  which  in 
spight  of  the  obsolete  phrases  and  intolerable  fustian  with  which  a 
great  part  of  it  was  cramm'd,  and  which  I  have  altered  in  these  new 
sheets,  had  some  extraordinary  beauties,  which  sensibly  charmed 
me  ;  which  being  improved  by  the  gracefiil  action  of  that  eternally 
renowned  and  best  of  actors,  so  attracted  not  only  me,  but  the  town 
in  general,  that  they  were  obliged  to  pass  by  and  excuse  the  gross 
errors  in  the  writing,  and  allow  it  amongst  the  rank  of  the  topping 
tragedies  of  that  time." 

Charles  Hart,  who  was  thus  one  of  the  long  succes- 
sion of  actors  to  make  a  striking  reputation  in  the  title 
part,  died  in  1683,  and,  according  to  D'Urfey,  **  for  a 
long  time  after  "  the  play  "  lay  buried  in  [his]  grave." 
But  *'not  willing  to  have  it  quite  lost,  I  presumed  to 
revise  it  and  write  the  plot  new."  D'Urfey's  main  al- 
teration was  to  represent  Bussy  and  Tamyra  as  having 
been  betrothed  before  the  play  opens,  and  the  latter 


31ntroDuction  xxix 

forced  against  her  will  into  a  marriage  with  the  wealthy 
Count  Montsurry.  This,  he  maintained,  palliated  the 
heroine's  surrender  to  passion  and  made  her  "distress 
in  the  last  Act  .  ,  .  much  more  liable  to  pity."  Whether 
morality  is  really  a  gainer  by  this  well-meant  variation 
from  the  more  primitive  code  of  the  original  play  is  open 
to  question,  but  we  welcome  the  substitution  of  Teresia 
the  "governess"  and  confidante  of  Tamyra  for  Friar 
Comolet  as  the  envoy  between  the  lovers.  Another 
notable  change  is  the  omission  of  the  narrative  of  the 
Nuntius,  which  is  replaced  by  a  short  duelling  scene 
upon  the  stage.  D'Urfey  rejects,  too,  the  supernatural 
machinery  in  Act  iv,  and  the  details  of  the  torture  of 
the  erring  Countess,  whom,  at  the  close  of  the  play,  he 
represents  not  as  wandering  from  her  husband's  home, 
but  as  stabbing  herself  in  despair. 

If  Chapman's  plot  needed  to  be  "writ  new"  at 
all,  D'Urfey  deserves  credit  for  having  done  his  work 
with  considerable  skill  and  taste,  though  he  hints  in  his 
dedication  that  there  were  detractors  who  did  not  view 
his  version  as  favourably  as  Lord  Carlisle.  He  had  some 
difficulty,  he  tells  us,  in  finding  an  actor  to  undertake 
the  part,  but  at  last  prevailed  upon  Mountfort  to  do  so, 
though  he  was  diffident  of  appearing  in  a  role  in  which 
Hart  had  made  so  great  a  reputation.  Mrs.  Bracegirdle, 
as  we  learn  from  the  list  of  Dramatis  Personce  prefixed 
to  the  published  edition,  played  Tamyra,  and  the  re- 
vival seems  to  have  been  a  success.  But  Mountfort  was 
assassinated  in  the  Strand  towards  the  close  of  the  fol- 
lowing year,  and  apparently  the  career  of  Bussy  upon 
the  boards  ended  with  his  life. 


XXX  31ntroDuction 

In  the  same  year  as  D'Urfey  revised  the  play, 
Langbaine  published  his  Account  of  the  English  Dra- 
ma tick  Poets,  wherein  (p.  59)  he  mentions  that  Bussy 
"has  the  preference"  among  all  Chapman's  writings 
and  vindicates  it  against  Dry  den's  attack  : 

"  I  know  not  how  Mr.  Dryden  came  to  be  so  possest  with  in- 
dignation against  this  play,  as  to  resolve  to  burn  one  annually  to  the 
memory  of  Ben  Jonson  :  but  I  know  very  well  that  there  are  some 
who  allow  it  a  just  commendation  ;  and  others  that  since  have 
taken  the  liberty  to  promise  a  solemn  annual  sacrifice  of  The  Hind 
and  Panther  to  the  memory  of  Mr.  Quarles  and  John  Bunyan." 

But  neither  D'Urfey  nor  Langbaine  could  secure  for 
Bussy  W  Ambois  a  renewal  of  its  earlier  popularity. 
During  the  eighteenth  century  it  fell  into  complete 
oblivion,  and  though  (as  the  Bibliography  testifies) 
nineteenth-century  critics  and  commentators  have 
sought  to  atone  for  the  neglect  of  their  predecessors, 
the  faults  of  the  play,  obvious  at  a  glance,  have  hitherto 
impaired  the  full  recognition  of  its  distinctive  merits  of 
design  and  thought.  To  bring  these  into  clearer  relief, 
and  trace  the  relation  of  its  plot  to  the  recorded  epi- 
sodes of  Bussy' s  career,  has  been  the  aim  of  the  pre- 
ceding pages.  It  must  always  count  to  Chapman's 
credit  that  he,  an  Englishman,  realized  to  the  full  the 
fascination  of  the  brilliant  Renaissance  figure,  who  had 
to  wait  till  the  nineteenth  century  to  be  rediscovered  for 
literary  purposes  by  the  greatest  romance-writer  among 
his  own  countrymen.  In  Bussy,  the  man  of  action, 
there  was  a  Titanic  strain  that  appealed  to  Chapman's 
intractable  and  rough-hewn  genius.  To  the  dramatist 
he  was  the  classical  Hercules  born  anew,  accomplishing 


31tttroUuction  xxxi 

similar  feats,  and  lured  to  a  similar  treacherous  doom. 
Thus  the  cardinal  virtue  of  the  play  is  a  Herculean 
energy  of  movement  and  of  speech  which  borrows 
something  of  epic  quality  from  the  Homeric  transla- 
tions on  which  Chapman  was  simultaneously  engaged, 
and  thereby  links  Bussy  D^  Ambois  to  his  most  triumph- 
ant literary  achievement. 

Six  years  after  the  publication  of  the  first  Quarto  of 
Bussy  D^  Ambois  Chapman  issued  a  sequel.  The  Re- 
venge of  Bussy  £)'  Ambois,  which,  as  we  learn  from  the 
title-page,  had  been  ♦*  often  presented  at  the  private 
Playhouse  in  the  White-Fryers."  But  in  the  interval 
he  had  written  two  other  plays  based  on  recent  French 
history,  Byrotis  Co?ispiracie  and  The  Tragedie  of  Charles 
Duke  of  Byron,  and  in  certain  aspects  The  Revenge  is 
more  closely  related  to  these  immediate  forerunners  than 
to  the  piece  of  which  it  is  the  titular  successor.  The 
discovery  which  I  recently  was  fortunate  enough  to  make 
of  a  common  immediate  source  of  the  two  Byron  plays 
and  of  The  Revenge  accentuates  the  connection  be- 
tween them,  and  at  the  same  time  throws  fresh  light  on 
the  problem  of  the  provenance  of  the  second  D' Ambois 
drama. 

In  his  scholarly  monograph  Que  Hen  Studien  zu  den 
Dramen  George  Chapmans,  Massingers,  und  Fords 
(1897),  E.  Koeppel  showed  that  the  three  connected 
plays  were  based  upon  materials  taken  from  Jean  de 
Serres's  Inventaire  General  de  P  Histoire  de  France 
(1603),  Pierre  Matthieu's  Histoire  de  France  durant 
Sept  A?in'ees  de  Paix  du  Regne  de  Henri  7^(1605), 
and   P.   V.    Cayet's  Chronologie  Septenaire  de  P  His- 


xxxii  31ntroi3uctton 

toire  de  la  Paix  entre  les  Roys  de  France  et  d''  Espagne 
(1605).  The  picture  suggested  by  Koeppel's  treatise 
was  of  Chapman  collating  a  number  of  contemporary 
French  historical  works,  and  choosing  from  each  of  them 
such  portions  as  suited  his  dramatic  purposes.  But  this 
conception,  as  I  have  shown  in  the  Athertteum  for  Jan. 
10,  1903,  p.  51,  must  now  be  abandoned.  Chapman 
did  not  go  to  the  French  originals  at  all,  but  to  a  more 
easily  accessible  source,  wherein  the  task  of  selection  and 
rearrangement  had  already  been  in  large  measure  per- 
formed. In  1607  the  printer,  George  Eld,  published  a 
handsome  folio,  of  which  the  British  Museum  possesses 
a  fine  copy  (c.  66,  b.  14),  originally  the  property  of 
Prince  Henry,  eldest  son  of  James  I.  Its  title  is  :  "  ^ 
General  hiventorie  of  the  Historie  of  France,  from  the 
beginning  of  that  Monarchic,  unto  the  Treatie  of  Ver- 
vins,  in  the  Teare  i^pS.  Written  by  fhon  de  Serres. 
And  continued  unto  these  Times,  out  of  the  best  Authors 
which  have  zvritten  of  that  Subiect.  Translated  out  of 
French  into  English  by  Edward  Grimeston,  Gentle- 
man.^^ This  work,  the  popularity  of  which  is  attested 
by  the  publication  of  a  second,  enlarged,  edition  in 
161 1,  was  the  direct  source  of  the  "Byron"  plays, 
and  of  The  Revenge. 

In  a  dedication  addressed  to  the  Earls  of  Suffolk  and 
Salisbury,  Grimeston  states  that  having  retired  to  "pri- 
vate and  domesticke  cares  "  after  "  some  years  expence 
in  France,  for  the  publike  service  of  the  State,"  he  has 
translated  "this  generall  Historie  of  France  written 
by  John  de  Serres."  In  a  preface  "  to  the  Reader"  he 
makes  the  further  important  statement  : 


3(lntroDuction  xxxiii 

"  The  History  of  John  de  Serres  ends  with  the  Treatie  at  Ver- 
vins  betwixt  France  and  Spaine  in  the  yeare  1598.  I  have  been 
importuned  to  make  the  History  perfect,  and  to  continue  it  unto 
these  times,  whereunto  I  have  added  (for  your  better  satisfaction) 
what  I  could  extract  out  of  Peter  Mathew  and  other  late  writers 
touching  this  subject.  Some  perchance  will  challenge  me  of  indis- 
cretion, that  I  have  not  translated  Peter  Mathew  onely,  being 
reputed  so  eloquent  and  learned  a  Writer.  To  them  I  answere  first, 
that  I  found  many  things  written  by  him  that  were  not  fit  to  be 
inserted,  and  some  things  belonging  unto  the  Historic,  related  by 
others,  whereof  he  makes  no  mention.  Secondly  his  style  is  so  full 
and  his  discourse  so  copious,  as  the  worke  would  have  held  no 
proportion,  for  that  this  last  addition  of  seven  years  must  have 
exceeded  halfe  Serres  Historie.  Which  considerations  have  made  me 
to  draw  forth  what  I  thought  most  materiall  for  the  subject,  and  to 
leave  the  rest  as  unnecessarie." 

From  this  we  learn  that  Grimeston  followed  Jean  de 
Serres  till  1598,  and  that  from  then  till  1604  (his 
time-limit  in  his  first  edition)  his  principal  source  was 
P.  Matthieu's  Histoire  de  France,  rigorously  con- 
densed, and,  at  the  same  time,  supplemented  from 
other  authorities.  A  collation  of  Grimeston' s  text 
with  that  of  the  "Byron"  plays  and  The  Revenge 
proves  that  every  passage  in  which  the  dramatist  draws 
upon  historical  materials  is  to  be  found  within  the  four 
corners  of  the  folio  of  1607.  The  most  striking  illus- 
trations of  this  are  to  be  found  in  the  "Byron" 
plays,  and  I  have  shown  elsewhere  (^Athenteum,  lac. 
cit.)  that  though  Chapman  in  handling  the  career  of 
the  ill-fated  Marshal  of  France  is  apparently  exploiting 
Pierre  Matthieu,  Jean  de  Serres,  and  Cayet  in  turn,  he 
is  really  taking  advantage  of  the  labours  of  Grimeston, 
who  had  rifled  their  stores  for  his  skilful  historical  mosaic. 
Grimeston  must  thus  henceforward  be  recognized  as 


xxxiv  31ntroUuction 

holding  something  of  the  same  relation  to  Chapman  as 
Sir  T.  North  does  to  Shakespeare,  with  the  distinction 
that  he  not  only  provides  the  raw  material  of  historical 
tragedy,  but  goes  some  way  in  the  refining  process. 

The  Revenge  of  Bussy  Z)'  Ambois  follows  historical 
lines  less  closely  than  the  "  Byron  "  plays,  but  here, 
too,  Grimeston's  volume  was  Chapman's  inspiring 
source,  and  the  perusal  of  its  closing  pages  gives  a  clue 
to  the  origin  of  this  most  singular  of  the  dramatist's 
serious  plays.  The  final  episode  included  in  the  folio 
of  1607  was  the  plot  by  which  the  Count  d'Auvergne, 
who  had  been  one  of  Byron's  fellow  conspirators,  and 
who  had  fallen  under  suspicion  for  a  second  time  in 
1604,  was  treacherously  arrested  by  agents  of  the 
King  while  attending  a  review  of  troops.  The  position 
of  this  narrative  (translated  from  P.  Matthieu)  at  the 
close  of  the  folio  must  have  helped  to  draw  Chapman's 
special  attention  to  it,  and  having  expended  his  genius 
so  liberally  on  the  career  o'i  the  arch-conspirator  of  the 
period,  he  was  apparently  moved  to  handle  also  that  of 
his  interesting  confederate.  But  D'Auvergne's  fortunes 
scarcely  furnished  the  stuff  for  a  complete  drama,  on 
Chapman's  customary  broad  scale,  and  he  seems  there- 
fore to  have  conceived  the  ingenious  idea  of  utihsing 
them  as  the  groundwork  of  a  sequel  to  his  most  popu- 
ular  play,  Buss-^  D''  Ambois. 

He  transformed  the  Count  into  an  imaginary  brother 
of  his  former  hero.  For  though  D' Ambois  had  two 
younger  brothers,  Hubert,  seigneur  de  Moigneville, 
and  Georges,  baron  de  Bussy,  it  is  highly  improbable 
that  Chapman  had  ever  heard  of  them,  and  there  was 


3(lncroDuccion  xxxv 

nothing  in  the  career  of  either  to  suggest  the  figure  of 
Clermont  D' Ambois.  The  name  given  by  Chapman  to 
this  unhistorical  addition  to  the  family  was,  I  believe, 
due  to  a  mere  chance,  if  not  a  misunderstanding.  In 
Grimeston's  narrative  of  the  plot  against  D'Auvergne 
he  mentions  that  one  of  the  King's  agents,  D'Eurre, 
♦•came  to  Clermont  on  Monday  at  night,  and  goes 
unto  him  [D'Auvergne]  where  he  supped."  Here  the 
name  Clermont  denotes,  of  course,  a  place.  But  Chap- 
man may  have  possibly  misconceived  it  to  refer  to  the 
Count,  and,  in  any  case,  its  occurrence  in  this  context 
probably  suggested  its  bestowal  upon  the  hero  of  the 
second  D' Ambois  play. 

A  later  passage  in  Grimeston's  history  gives  an 
interesting  glimpse  of  D'Auvergne's  character.  We 
are  told  that  after  he  had  been  arrested,  and  was  being 
conducted  to  Paris,  '*  all  the  way  he  seemed  no  more 
afflicted,  then  when  he  was  at  libertie.  He  tould  youth- 
full  and  idle  tales  of  his  love,  and  the  deceiving  of 
ladies.  Hee  shott  in  a  harquebuse  at  birds,  wherein 
hee  was  so  perfect  and  excellent,  as  hee  did  kill  larkes 
as  they  were  flying." 

From  this  hint  of  a  personality  serenely  proof  against 
the  shocks  of  adversity  Chapman  elaborated  the  figure 
of  the  "  Senecall  man,"  Clermont  D'Ambois.  In 
developing  his  conception  he  drew,  however,  not  pri- 
marily, as  this  phrase  suggests,  from  the  writings  of  the 
Roman  senator  and  sage,  but  from  those  of  the  lowlier, 
though  not  less  authoritative  exponent  of  Stoic  doctrine, 
the  enfranchised  slave,  Epictetus.  As  is  shown,  for  the 
first  dme,  in  the  Notes  to  this  edition,  the  Discourses  of 


xxxvi  JlntroDuction 

**  the  grave  Greek  moralist,"  known  probably  through 
a  Latin  version  (cf.  ii,  i,  157),  must  have  been  almost 
as  close  to  Chapman's  hand  while  he  was  writing  The 
Revenge  as  Grimeston's  compilation.  Five  long  passages 
in  the  play  (i,  i,  336-42,  11,  i,  157-60,  11,  i,  211- 
32,  III,  iv,  58-75,  and  in,  iv,  127-41)  are  translated 
or  adapted  from  specific  dicta  in  the  Discourses,  while 
Epictetus's  work  in  its  whole  ethical  teaching  furnished 
material  for  the  delineation  of  the  ideal  Stoic  (iv,  iv, 
14-46)  who 

"  May  with  heavens  immortall  powers  compare, 
To  whom  the  day  and  fortune  equall  are  5 
Come  faire  or  foule,  what  ever  chance  can  fall, 
Fixt  in  himselfe,  hee  still  is  one  to  all." 

But  in  the  character  of  Clermont  there  mingle  other 
elements  than  those  derived  from  either  the  historical 
figure  of  D'Auvergne,  or  the  ideal  man  of  Stoic  specu- 
lation. Had  Hamlet  never  faltered  in  the  task  of  exe- 
cuting justice  upon  the  murderer  of  his  father,  it  is 
doubtful  if  a  brother  of  Bussy  would  ever  have  trod  the 
Jacobean  stage.  Not  indeed  that  the  idea  of  vengeance 
being  sought  for  D'Ambois's  fate  by  one  of  his  nearest 
kith  and  kin  was  without  basis  in  fact.  But  it  was  a 
sister,  not  a  brother,  who  had  devoted  her  own  and 
her  husband's  energies  to  the  task,  though  finally  the 
matter  had  been  compromised.  De  Thou,  at  the  close 
of  his  account  of  Bussy 's  murder,  relates  (vol.  iii, 
Ub.  Lxvii,  p.  330): 

"  Inde  odia  capitalia  inter  Bussianos  et  Monsorellum  exorta  : 
quorum  exercendorum  onus  in  se  iuscepit  Joannes  Monlucius  Balag- 
nius,   .    .    .    ducta  in   matrimonium  occisi  Bussii  sorore,  magni  animi 


JlntroDuction  xxxvii 

foemina  quae  faces  irae  maritali  suhjiciebat :   -v'txque  post  no-vennium 
certis  conditionihus  jussu  regis  inter  eum  et  Monsorellum  transactum 

In  a  later  passage  (vol.  v,  lib.  cxviii,  p.  558)  he 
is  even  more  explicit.  After  referring  to  B ussy' s  treach- 
erous assassination,  he  continues  : 

"  Siuam  injuriam  Renata  ejus  soror,  generosa  foemina  et  supra 
sexum  ambitiosa,  a  fratre  proximisque  neglectam,  cum  inultam  ma- 
nere  impatientissime  ferret,  Balagnio  se  ultorem  profitetite,  spretis 
suorum  monitis  in  matrimonium  cum  ipso  consensit.^'  C^) 

As  these  passages  first  appeared  in  De  Thou's  His- 
tory in  the  edition  of  1620,  they  cannot  have  been 
known  to  Chapman,  when  he  was  writing  The  Re- 
venge. But  the  circumstances  must  have  been  familiar 
to  him  from  some  other  source,  probably  that  which 
supplied  the  material  for  the  earlier  play.  He  accord- 
ingly introduces  Renee  D' Ambois  (whom  he  rechristens 
Charlotte)  with  her  husband  into  his  drama,  but  with 
great  skill  he  makes  her  fiery  passion  for  revenge  at  all 
costs  a  foil  to  the  scrupulous  and  deliberate  procedure 
of  the  high-souled  Clermont.  Like  Hamlet,  the  latter 
has  been  commissioned  by  the  ghost  of  his  murdered 
kinsman  to  the  execution  of  a  task  alien  to  his  nature. 

(l)"  Hence  a  deadly  feud  arose  between  the  kin  of  Bussy  and  Montsurry. 
The  task  of  carrying  this  into  action  was  undertaken  by  Jean  Montluc 
Baligny,  who  had  married  the  murdered  man's  sister,  a  high-spirited 
woman  who  fanned  the  flame  of  her  husband's  wrath.  With  difficulty, 
after  a  period  of  nine  years,  was  an  arrangement  come  to  between  him 
and  Montsurry  on  specified  terms  by  the  order  of  the  King." 

(2)  "  Renee,  his  sister,  a  high-souled  woman,  and  of  aspirations  loftier 
than  those  of  her  sex,  brooked  it  very  ill  that  this  injury,  of  which  his 
brother  and  nearest  kin  took  no  heed,  should  remain  unavenged.  When, 
therefore,  Baligny  profFerred  himself  as  an  avenger,  she  agreed  to  marry 
him,  in  defiance  of  the  admonitions  of  her  family." 


xxxviii  3]ntroDuction 

Though  he  sends  a  challenge  to  Montsurry,  and  is 
not  lacking  in  "the  D' Ambois  spirit,"  the  atmosphere  in 
which  he  lingers  with  whole-hearted  zest  is  that  of  the 
philosophical  schools.  He  is  eager  to  draw  every  chance 
comer  into  debate  on  the  first  principles  of  action. 
Absorbed  in  speculation,  he  is  indifferent  to  external 
circumstances.  As  Hamlet  at  the  crisis  of  his  fate  lets 
himself  be  shipped  off  to  England,  so  Clermont  makes 
no  demur  when  the  King,  who  suspects  him  of  com- 
plicity with  Guise's  traitorous  designs,  sends  him  to 
Cambray,  of  which  his  brother-in-law,  Baligny,  has 
been  appointed  Lieutenant.  When  on  his  arrival,  his 
sister,  the  Lieutenant's  wife,  upbraids  him  with  **  linger- 
ing "  their  "dear  brother's  wreak,"  he  makes  the 
confession  (iii,  ii,  112-15)  : 

"  I  repent  that  ever 
(By  any  instigation  in  th'appearance 
My  brothers  spirit  made,  as  I  imagined) 
That  e'er  I  yeelded  to  revenge  his  murther." 

Like  Hamlet,  too,  Clermont,  "generous  and  free 
from  all  contriving,"  is  slow  to  suspect  evil  in  others, 
and  though  warned  by  an  anonymous  letter  —  here 
Chapman  draws  the  incidents  from  the  story  of  Count 
D'Auvergne  — he  lets  himself  be  entrapped  at  a  "  mus- 
ter "  or  review  of  troops  by  the  King's  emissaries. 
But  the  intervention  of  Guise  soon  procures  his  release. 
In  the  dialogue  that  follows  between  him  and  his  patron 
the  influence  of  Shakespeare's  tragedy  is  unmistakably 
patent.  The  latter  is  confiding  to  Clermont  his  appre- 
hensions for  the  future,  when  the  ghost  of  Bussy  ap- 
pears, and  chides  his  brother  for  his  delay  in  righting 


31ntrotiuction  xxxix 

his  wrongs.  That  the  Umbra  of  the  elder  D'Ambois 
is  here  merely  emulating  the  attitude  of  the  elder  Ham- 
let's spirit  would  be  sufficiently  obvious,  even  if  it  were 
not  put  beyond  doubt  by  the  excited  dialogue  between 
Guise,  to  whom  the  Ghost  is  invisible,  and  Clermont, 
which  is  almost  a  verbal  echo  of  the  parallel  dialogue 
between  the  Danish  Prince  and  the  Queen.  This  sec- 
ond visitation  from  the  unseen  world  at  last  stirs  up 
Clermont  to  execute  the  long-delayed  vengeance  upon 
Montsurry,  though  he  is  all  but  forestalled  by  Charlotte, 
who  has  donned  masculine  disguise  for  the  purpose. 
But  hard  upon  the  deed  comes  the  news  of  Guise's 
assassination,  and  impatient  of  the  earthly  barriers  that 
now  sever  him  from  his  "lord,"  Clermont  takes  his 
own  life  in  the  approved  Stoic  fashion.  So  passes  from 
the  scene  one  of  the  most  original  and  engaging  figures 
in  our  dramatic  literature,  and  the  more  thorough  our 
analysis  of  the  curiously  diverse  elements  out  of  which 
he  has  been  fashioned,  the  higher  will  be  our  estimate  of 
Chapman's  creative  power. 

Was  it  primarily  with  the  motive  of  providing  Cler- 
mont with  a  plausible  excuse  for  suicide  that  Chapman 
so  startiingly  transformed  the  personality  of  Henry  of 
Guise  ?  The  Duke  as  he  appears  in  The  Revenge  has 
scarcely  a  feature  in  common  either  with  the  Guise  of 
history  or  of  the  earlier  play.  Instead  of  the  turbulent 
and  intriguing  noble  we  see  a  "true  tenth  worthy," 
who  realizes  that  without  accompanying  virtues  "  great- 
ness is  a  shade,  a  bubble,"  and  who  drinks  in  from  the 
lips  of  Clermont  doctrines  "  of  stabiHty  and  freedom." 
To  such  an  extent  does  Chapman  turn  apologist  for 


xi  31ntrol)uction 

Guise  that  in  a  well-known  passage  (ii,  i,  205  iF, )  he 
goes  out  of  his  way  to  declare  that  the  Massacre  of  St. 
Bartholomew  was  "  hainous  "  only  "  to  a  brutish  sense. 
But  not  a  manly  reason,"  and  to  argue  that  the  blame 
lay  not  with  "  religious  Guise,"  but  with  those  who  had 
played  false  to  "  faith  and  true  religion."  So  astonishing 
is  the  dramatist's  change  of  front  that,  but  for  the  com- 
plete lack  of  substantiating  evidence,  one  would  infer 
that,  like  Dryden  in  the  interval  between  Religio  Laid 
and  The  Hind  and  Panther,  he  had  joined  the  Church 
of  Rome.  In  any  case  the  change  is  not  due  to  the  in- 
fluence of  Grimeston's  volume,  whence  Chapman  draws 
his  material  for  the  account  of  Guise's  last  days.  For 
Jean  de  Serres  (whom  the  Englishman  is  here  translat- 
ing) sums  up  the  Duke's  character  in  an  '•  apprecia- 
tion," where  virtues  and  faults  are  impartially  balanced 
and  the  latter  are  in  no  wise  extenuated.  It  is  another 
tribute  to  Chapman's  skill,  which  only  close  study  of 
the  play  in  relation  to  its  source  brings  out,  that  while 
he  borrows,  even  to  the  most  minute  particulars,  from 
the  annalist,  he  throws  round  the  closing  episodes  of 
Guise's  career  a  halo  of  political  martyrdom  which 
there  is  nothing  in  the  original  to  suggest.  This  meta- 
morphosis of  Guise  is  all  the  more  remarkable,  because 
Monsieur,  his  former  co-partner  in  villany,  reappears, 
in  the  one  scene  where  he  figures,  in  the  same  ribald, 
blustering  vein  as  before,  and  his  death  is  reported,  at  the 
close  of  Act  IV,  as  a  fulfilment  of  Bussy's  dying  curse. 
While  Guise  is  transfigured,  and  Monsieur  remains 
his  truculent,  vainglorious  self,  Montsurry  has  suffered 
a  strange  degeneration.    It  is  sufficiently  remarkable,  to 


31ntroDuctton  xli 

begin  with,  after  his  declaration  at  the  end  of  Bussy 
D'Ambois, 

"  May  both  points  of  heavens  strait  axeltree 
Conjoyne  in  one,  before  thy  selfe  and  me  !  '  * 

to  find  him  ready  to  receive  back  Tamyra  as  his  wife, 
though  her  sole  motive  in  rejoining  him  is  to  precipitate 
vengeance  on  his  head.  Nor  had  anything  in  the  earlier 
play  prepared  us  for  the  spectacle  of  him  as  a  poltroon, 
who  has  ♦' barricado'd  "  himself  in  his  house  to  avoid 
a  challenge,  and  who  shrieks  "  murther  ! "  at  the  en- 
trance of  an  unexpected  visitor.  In  the  light  of  such 
conduct  it  is  difficult  to  regard  as  merely  assumed  his 
pusillanimity  in  the  final  scene,  where  he  at  first  grovels 
before  Clermont  on  the  plea  that  by  his  baseness  he 
will  "shame"  the  avenger's  victory.  And  when  he 
does  finally  nerve  himself  to  the  encounter,  and  dies 
with  words  of  forgiveness  for  Clermont  and  Tamyra  on 
his  lips,  the  episode  of  reconciliation,  though  evidently 
intended  to  be  edifying,  is  so  huddled  and  inconsecu- 
tive as  to  be  well-nigh  ridiculous. 

Equally  ineffective  and  incongruous  are  the  moral- 
ising discourses  of  which  Bussy' s  ghost  is  made  the 
spokesman.  It  does  not  seem  to  have  occurred  to 
Chapman  that  vindications  of  divine  justice,  suitable 
on  the  lips  of  the  elder  Hamlet,  fell  with  singular  in- 
felicity fi-om  one  who  had  met  his  doom  in  the  course 
of  a  midnight  intrigue.  In  fact,  wherever  the  drama- 
tist reintroduces  the  main  figures  of  the  earlier  play, 
he  falls  to  an  inferior  level.  He  seems  unable  to  re- 
vivify its  nobler  elements,  and  merely  repeats  the  more 


xHi  3|ntroDuction 

melodramatic  and  garish  effects  which  refuse  to  blend 
with  the  classic  grace  and  pathos  of  Clermont's  story. 
The  audiences  before  whom  The  Revenge  was  pro- 
duced evidently  showed  themselves  ill-affected  towards 
such  a  medley  of  purely  fictitious  creations,  and  of  his- 
torical personages  and  incidents,  treated  in  the  most  ar- 
bitrary fashion.  For  Chapman  in  his  dedicatory  letter  to 
Sir  Thomas  Howard  refers  bitterly  to  the  "  maligners  " 
with  whom  the  play  met  "in  the  scenicall  presenta- 
tion," and  asks  who  will  expect  *'  the  autenticall  truth 
of  eyther  person  or  action  ...  in  a  poeme,  whose  sub- 
ject is  not  truth,  but  things  like  truth?"  He  forgets 
that  *♦  things  like  truth  "  are  not  attained,  when  alien 
elements  are  forced  into  mechanical  union,  or  when 
well-known  historical  characters  and  events  are  pre- 
sented under  radically  false  colours.  But  we  who  read 
the  drama  after  an  interval  of  three  centuries  can  afford 
to  be  less  perturbed  than  Jacobean  playgoers  at  its  au- 
dacious juggling  with  facts,  provided  that  it  appeals  to 
us  in  other  ways.  We  are  not  likely  indeed  to  adopt 
Chapman's  view  that  the  elements  that  give  it  endur- 
ing value  are  "materiall  instruction,  elegant  and  sen- 
tentious excitation  to  vertue,  and  deflection  from  her 
contrary. ' '  For  these  we  shall  assuredly  look  elsewhere ; 
it  is  not  to  them  that  The  Revenge  of  B ussy  D^  Ambois 
owes  its  distinctive  charm.  The  secret  of  that  charm 
lies  outside  the  spheres  of  "autenticall  truth,"  moral 
as  well  as  historical.  It  consists,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
essentially  in  this  —  that  the  play  is  one  of  the  most 
truly  spontaneous  products  of  English  *<  humanism  " 
in  its  later  phase.    The  same  passionate  impulse  —  in 


3|ntrotiuction  xliii 

itself  so  curiously  "romantic" — to  revitalise  class- 
ical life  and  ideals,  which  prompted  Chapman's  trans- 
lation of  "Homer,  Prince  of  Poets,"  is  the  shaping 
spirit  of  this  singular  tragedy.  Its  hero,  as  we  have  seen, 
has  strayed  into  the  France  of  the  Catholic  Reaction 
from  some  academe  in  Athens  or  in  imperial  Rome. 
He  is,  in  truth,  far  more  really  a  spirit  risen  from  the 
dead  than  the  materialised  Umbra  of  his  brother.  His 
pervasive  influence  works  in  all  around  him,  so  that 
nobles  and  courtiers  forget  for  a  time  the  strife  of  faction 
while  they  linger  over  some  fragrant  memory  of  the 
older  world.  Epictetus  with  his  doctrines  of  how  to  live 
and  how  to  die;  the  "grave  Greeke  tragedian"  who 
drew  "the  princesse,  sweet  Antigone "  ;  Homer  with 
his  "  unmatched  poem  "  ;  the  orators  Demetrius  Phale- 
rius  and  Demades  —  these  and  their  like  cast  a  spell  over 
the  scene,  and  transport  us  out  of  the  troubled  atmo- 
sphere of  sixteenth-century  vendetta  into  the  "ampler 
aether,"  the  "diviner  air,"  of  "the  glory  that  was 
Greece,  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome." 

Thus  the  two  Buss'j  plays,  when  critically  examined, 
are  seen  to  be  essentially  unlike  in  spite  of  their  ex- 
ternal similarity.  The  plot  of  the  one  springs  from  that 
of  the  other;  both  are  laid  in  the  same  period  and  milieu; 
in  technique  they  are  closely  akin.  The  diction  and 
imagery  are,  indeed,  simpler,  and  the  verse  is  of  more 
liquid  cadence  in  The  Revenge  than  in  Bussj  D'  Ambois. 
But  the  true  difference  lies  deeper,  —  in  the  innermost 
spirit  of  the  two  dramas.  Bussy  D''  Ambois  is  begotten 
of  "  the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and  whirlwind"  of  pas- 
sion; it  throbs  with  the  stress  of  an  over-tumultuous  life. 


xliv  3flntroDuction 

The  Revenge  is  the  offspring  of  the  meditative  impulse, 
that  averts  its  gaze  from  the  outward  pageant  of  exist- 
ence, to  peer  into  the  secrets  of  Man's  ultimate  destiny, 
and  his  relation  to  the  ''Universal,"  of  which  he  in- 
voluntarily finds  himself  a  part. 

Frederick  S.  Boas. 


THE    TEXT 

Bussy  D" Amboh  was  first  printed  in  quarto  in  1607  by  W. 
Aspley,  and  was  reissued  in  1608.  In  1641,  seven  years  after 
Chapman's  death,  Robert  Lunne  published  another  edition  in  quarto 
of  the  play,  which,  according  to  the  title-page,  was  "  much  cor- 
rected and  amended  by  the  Author  before  his  death."  This  quarto 
differs  essentially  from  its  predecessors.  It  omits  and  adds  numer- 
ous passages,  and  makes  constant  minor  changes  in  the  text.  The 
revised  version  is  not  appreciably  superior  to  the  original  draft,  but, 
on  the  evidence  of  the  title-page,  it  must  be  accepted  as  authorita- 
tive. It  was  reissued  by  Lunne,  with  a  different  imprint,  in  1646, 
and  by  J.  Kirton,  with  a  new  title-page,  in  1657.  Copies  of  the 
1 641  quarto  differ  in  unimportant  details  such  as  articular,  artkulat, 
for  evidently  some  errors  were  corrected  as  the  edition  passed  through 
the  press.  Some  copies  of  the  1 646  quarto  duplicate  the  uncorrected 
copies  of  the  1641  quarto. 

In  a  reprint  of  Chapman's  Tragedies  and  Comedies,  published  by 
J.  Pearson  in  1873,  tlie  anonymous  editor  purported  to  "follow 
mainly"  the  text  of  1641,  but  collation  with  the  originals  shows 
that  he  transcribed  that  of  1607,  substituting  the  later  version 
where  the  two  quartos  differed,  but  retaining  elsewhere  the  spell- 
ing of  the  earlier  one.  Nor  is  his  list  of  variants  complete.  There 
have  been  also  three  editions  of  the  play  in  modernized  spelling  by 
C.  W.  Dilke  in  18 14,  R.  H.  Shepherd  in  1874,  and  W.  L.  Phelps 
in  1895,  particulars  of  which  are  given  in  the  Bibliography.  The 
present  edition  is  therefore  the  first  to  reproduce  the  authoritative 
text  unimpaired.  The  original  spelling  has  been  retained,  though 
capitalization  has  been  modernized,  and  the  use  of  italics  for  per- 
sonal names  has  not  been  preserved.  But  the  chaotic  punctuation 
has  been  throughout  revised,  though,  except  to  remove  ambiguity, 
I  have  not  interfered  with  one  distinctive  feature,  an  exceptionally 
frequent  use  of  brackets.  In  a  few  cases  of  doubtful  interpretation, 
the  old  punctuation  has  been  given  in  the  footnotes. 

Dilke,  though  the  earliest  of  the  annotators,  contributed  most  to 


xivi  ^Ije  ^m 

the  elucidation  of  allusions  and  obsolete  phrases.  While  seeking  to 
supplement  his  and  his  successors'  labours  in  this  direction,  I  have 
also  attempted  a  more  perilous  task  —  the  interpretation  of  passages 
where  the  difficulty  arises  from  the  peculiar  texture  of  Chapman's 
thought  and  style.  Such  a  critical  venture  seems  a  necessary  pre- 
liminary if  we  are  ever  to  sift  truth  from  falsehood  in  Dryden's 
indictment  —  indolently  accepted  by  many  critics  as  conclusive  — 
of  Bussy  D'  yimbois. 

The  group  of  quartos  of  1641,  1646,  and  1657,  containing 
Chapman's  revised  text,  is  denoted  by  the  symbol  "  B  "  ;  those  of 
1607  and  I  608  by  "A."  In  the  footnotes  all  the  variants  contained 
in  A  are  given  except  in  a  few  cases  where  the  reading  of  A  has  been 
adopted  in  the  text  and  that  of  B  recorded  as  a  variant.  I  have 
preferred  the  reading  of  A  to  B,  when  it  gives  an  obviously  better 
sense,  or  is  metrically  superior.  I  have  also  included  in  the  Text  fifty 
lines  at  the  beginning  of  Act  11,  Scene  2,  which  are  found  only  in 
A.  Some  slight  conjectural  emendations  have  been  attempted  which 
are  distinguished  by  "emend,  ed."  in  the  footnotes.  In  these 
cases  the  reading  of  the  quartos,  if  unanimous,  is  denoted  by  "  ^q." 

In  the  quartos  the  play  is  simply  divided  into  five  Acts.  These 
I  have  subdivided  into  Scenes,  within  which  the  lines  have  been 
numbered  to  facilitate  reference.  The  stage  directions  in  B  are 
numerous  and  precise,  and  I  have  made  only  a  few  additions,  which 
are  enclosed  in  brackets.  The  quartos  vary  between  Bussy  and 
D^ jdmbois,  and  between  Behemoth  and  Spiritus,  as  a  prefix  to 
speeches.    I  have  kept  to  the  former  throughout  in  either  case. 

F.  S.  B. 


Bufly  DAmbois; 

TRAGEDIE= 

As  It  hath  been  often  Afted  with 

great  Applaufe. 

'Being  much  corre^ed  and  amended 

by  the  Author  before  his  death. 


L  O  N  D  0  A^: 

Printed  by  J.  A^.  [or^hertLunne. 
1641. 


SOURCES 

The  immediate  source  of  the  play  has  not  been  identified,  but 
in  the  Introduction  attention  has  been  drawn  to  passages  in  the 
writings  of  Bussy's  contemporaries,  especially  Brantome  and  Mar- 
guerite de  Valois,  which  narrate  episodes  similar  to  those  in  the 
earlier  Acts.  Extracts  from  De  Thou's  Historiae  sui  temporh  and 
Rosset's  Hhtoirei  Tragiques,  which  tell  the  tale  of  Bussy's  amorous 
intrigue  and  his  assassination,  have  also  been  reprinted  as  an  Appendix. 
But  both  these  narratives  are  later  than  the  play.  Seneca's  repre- 
sentation in  the  Hercules  CEtaeus  of  the  Greek  hero's  destruction  by 
treachery  gave  Chapman  suggestions  for  his  treatment  of  the  final 
episode  in  Bussy's  career  (cf.  v,  4,  100-108,  and  note). 


PROLOGUE 

Not  out  of  confidence  that  none  but  wee 

Are  able  to  present  this  tragedie^ 

Nor  out  of  envie  at  the  grace  of  late 

It  did  receive^  nor  yet  to  derogate 

From  their  deserts^  who  give  out  boldly  that  5 

They  move  with  e  quail  feet  on  the  same  flat  ; 

Neither  for  all^  nor  any  of  such  ends^ 

IVe  offer  it^  gracious  and  noble  friends^ 

To  your  review  ;  wee^farre  from  emulation., 

And  (^charitably  judge^  from  imitation^  lo 

With  this  work  entertaine  you.,  a  peece  knowne^ 

And  still  beleev^d^  in  Court  to  be  our  owne. 

To  quit  our  claime^  doubting  our  right  or  merit., 

Would  argue  in  us  poverty  of  spirit 

Which  we  must  not  subscribe  to  :  Field  is  gone.,         i  s 

Whose  action  first  did  give  it  name.,  and  one 

Who  came  the  neerest  to  him.,  is  denide 

Prologue.   The  Prologue  does  not  appear  in  A. 

lo    {^charitably  judge).     So  punctuated  by  ed.    B  has  :  — 

'To  your  review.^  we  farre  from  emulation 

{u4nd  charitably  judge  from  imitation) 

IVith  this  work  entertaine  you.^  a  peece  knowne 

And  still  beleey'd  in  Court  to  he  our  owne. 

To  quit  our  claime,  doubting  our  right  or  merit, 

If-^ould  argue  in  us  poverty  of  spirit 

If^hich  we  must  not  subscribe  to  : 

1 3   doubting.    In  some  copies  of  B  this  is  misprinted  oubting. 


^prologue  3 

By  his  gray  beard  to  shew  the  height  and  pride 

Of  D*  Ambois  youth  and  braverie  ;  yet  to  hold 

Our  title  still  a  foot ^  and  not  grow  cold  20 

By  giving  it  oWe^  a  third  man  with  his  best 

Of  care  and  paines  defends  our  interest ; 

As  Richard  he  was  lik'd^  nor  doe  wee  feare^ 

In  personating  D'  Ambois,,  hee'le  appeare 

To  faint ^  or  goe  lesse^  so  your  free  consent^  »5 

As  heretofore^  give  him  encouragement. 


[DRAMATIS    PERSONiE.i 

Henry  III,  King  of  France. 
Monsieur,  his  brotlier. 
The  Duke  of  Guise. 
MoNTsuRRY,  a  Count. 

BUSSY  D'AMBOIS. 

Barrisor,   ) 

L'Anou,        >  Courtiers;   enemies  of  D'Ambois. 

Pyrhot,      ) 

Brisac,  I  Courtiers:    friends  of  D'Ambois. 

Melynell,      )  ' 

CoMOLET,  a  Friar. 

Maffe,  steward  to  Monsieur. 

Nuncius. 

Murderers. 


Behemoth, 
Cartophylax, 
Umbra  of  Friar, 


Spirits. 


Elenor,  Duchess  of  Guise. 

Tamyra,  Countess  of  Montsurry. 

Beaupre,  niece  to  Elenor. 

Annable,  maid  to  Elenor. 

Pero,  maid  to  Tamyra. 

Charlotte,  maid  to  Beaupre. 

Pyra,  a  court  lady. 

Courtiers,  Ladies,  Pages,  Servants,  Sjjirits,  &c. 

Scene.  —  Paris.^] 

'  The  Quartos  contain  no  list  of  Dramalis  Persona.  One  is  however 
prefixed  to  D'Urfey's  version  (1691),  with  the  names  of  the  performers 
added.  C.  W.  Dilke  prefixed  a  somewhat  imperfect  one  to  his  edition  in 
vol.  Ill  of  Old  English  Plays  (1814).  W.  L.  Phelps,  who  did  not  know 
of  Dilke's  list,  supplied  a  more  correct  one  in  his  edition  in  the  Mermaid 
Series  (1895).  The  subjoined  list  adds  some  fresh  details,  especially 
concerning  the  subordinate  characters. 

2  Many  episodes  in  Bussy  D'Ambois's  career,  which  took  place  in  the 
Province  of  Anjou,  are  transferred  in  the  play  to  Paris. 


€ragctiie 


Actus  primi  Scena  prima. 

\_J  g/aiJe,  near  the  Court.~\ 

Enter  Bussy  Z)'  Ambois  poore. 

[Bussy.~\  Fortune,  not  Reason,  rules  the  state 
of  things. 
Reward  goes  backwards,  Honor  on  his  head, 
Who  is  not  poore  is  monstrous ;  only  Need 
Gives  forme  and  worth  to  every  humane  seed. 
As  cedars  beaten  with  continual!  stormes. 
So  great  men  flourish  ;  and  doe  imitate 
Unskilful!  statuaries,  who  suppose 
(In  forming  a  Colossus)  if  they  make  him 
Stroddle  enough,  stroot,  and  look  bigg,  and  gape, 
Their  work  is  goodly  :   so  men  meerely  great 
In  their  affected  gravity  of  voice, 

5  continuall.    A,  incessant.  8  forming.    A,  forging. 

lo  men  meerely  great.    A,  our  tympanouse  statists. 


6  115u0s(^  2D'^mboi0  [act  i. 

Sowrnesse  of  countenance,  manners  cruelty. 
Authority,  wealth,  and  all  the  spawne  of  For- 
tune, 
Think  they  beare  all  the  Kingdomes  worth  be- 
fore them ; 
Yet  differ  not  from  those  colossick  statues,  15 

Which,   with    heroique    formes    without    o're- 

spread. 
Within  are  nought  but  morter,  flint  and  lead. 
Man  is  a  torch  borne  in  the  winde  ;  a  dreame 
But  of  a  shadow,  summ'd  with  all  his  substance  ; 
And  as  great  seamen  using  all  their  wealth  20 

And  skills  in  Neptunes  deepe  invisible  pathes. 
In  tall  ships  richly  built  and  ribd  with  brasse, 
To  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  world. 
When  they  have  done  it  (comming  neere  their' 

haven) 
Are  faine  to  give  a  warning  peece,  and  call  25 

A  poore  staid  fisher-man,  that  never  past 
His  countries  sight,  to  waft  and  guide  them  in  : 
So  when  we  wander  furthest  through  the  waves 
Of  glassie  Glory,  and  the  gulfes  of  State, 
Topt  with  all  titles,  spreading  all  our  reaches,      30 
As  if  each  private  arme  would  sphere  the  earth, 
Wee  must  to  vertue  for  her  guide  resort. 
Or  wee  shall  shipwrack  in  our  safest  port. 

Procumbit. 

20  ivealth.    A,  powers.  25  faine.    A,  glad. 

3 1    earth.     A,  world. 


Scene  I]  )15U0g^  SD'^UlbOig  7 

\_Efiter^  Monsieur  with  two  Pages. 

\_Monsieur^    There    is  no   second    place    in 
numerous  state 
That  holds  more  than  a  cypher  :   in  a  King  35 

All  places  are  contain'd.    His  words  and  looks 
Are  like  the  flashes  and  the  bolts  of  Jove ; 
His  deeds  inimitable,  like  the  sea 
That  shuts  still  as  it  opes,  and  leaves  no  tracts, 
Nor  prints  of  president  for  meane  mens  facts :     40 
There's  but  a  thred  betwixt  me  and  a  crowne ; 
I  would  not  wish  it  cut,  unlesse  by  nature ; 
Yet  to  prepare  me  for  that  possible  fortune, 
'T  is  good  to  get  resolved  spirits  about  mee. 
I  follow'd  D'Ambois  to  this  greene  retreat ;  45 

A  man  of  spirit  beyond  the  reach  of  feare. 
Who  (discontent  with  his  neglected  worth) 
Neglects  the  light,  and  loves  obscure  abodes  ; 
But  hee  is  young  and  haughty,  apt  to  take 
Fire  at  advancement,  to  beare  state,  and  flourish  ;  50 
In  his  rise  therefore  shall  my  bounties  shine  : 
None  lothes  the  world  so  much,  nor  loves  to 

scofFe  it, 
But  gold  and  grace  will  make  him  surfet  of  it. 
What,  D'Ambois !  — 

Buis.  He,  sir. 

Mons.  Turn  d  to  earth,  alive  ! 

Up  man,  the  sunne  shines  on  thee. 

40  meane.   A,  poore.  43  possible.    A,  likely. 

44  good  to.    A,  fit  I. 


8  115U001?  SD'^mboig  [act  i. 

Buss.  Let  it  shine:   55 

I  am  no  mote  to  play  in't,  as  great  men  are. 
Mons.   Callest  thou  men  great  in  state,  motes 

in  the  sunne  ? 
They  say  so  that  would  have   thee  freeze    in 

shades, 
That  (like  the  grosse  Sicilian  gurmundist) 
Empty  their  noses  in  the  cates  they  love,  60 

That  none  may  eat  but  they.    Do  thou  but  bring 
Light  to  the  banquet  Fortune  sets  before  thee 
And  thou  wilt  loath   leane  darknesse   like  thy 

death. 
Who  would  beleeve  thy  mettall  could  let  sloth 
Rust  and  consume  it  ?    If  Themistocles  65 

Had  liv'd  obscur'd  thus  in  th'Athenian  State, 
Xerxes  had  made  both  him  and  it  his  slaves. 
If  brave  Camillus  had  lurckt  so  in  Rome, 
He  had  not  five  times  beene  Dictator  there. 
Nor  foure  times  triumpht.    If  Epaminondas  70 

(Who   liv'd   twice   twenty   yeeres    obscur'd    in 

Thebs) 
Had  liv'd  so  still,  he  had  beene  still  unnam'd. 
And  paid  his  country  nor  himselfe  their  right : 
But  putting  forth  his  strength  he  rescu'd  both 
From  imminent  ruine  ;  and,  like  burnisht  Steele,  75 
After  long  use  he  shin'd  ;   for  as  the  light 
Not  only  serves  to  shew,  but  render  us 

57   Callest.    A,  Think'st. 


Scene  I]  WuHS^  W^XtlhoiS  9 

Mutually  profitable,  so  our  lives 

In  acts  exemplarie  not  only  winne 

Our  selves  good  names,  but  doe  to  others  give     80 

Matter  for  vertuous  deeds,  by  which  wee  live. 

Buss.   What  would  you  wish  me  ? 

Mons.  Leave  the  troubled  streames. 

And  live  where  thrivers  doe,  at  the  well  head. 

Buss.  At  the  well  head  ?   Alas  !   what  should 
I  doe 
With  that  enchanted  glasse  ?    See  devils  there  ?    85 
Or  (like  a  strumpet)  learne  to  set  my  looks 
In  an  eternall  brake,  or  practise  jugling. 
To  keep  my  face  still  fast,  my  heart  still  loose; 
Or  beare  (like  dames  schoolmistresses  their  rid- 
dles) 
Two  tongues,  and  be  good  only  for  a  shift ;  90 

Flatter  great  lords,  to  put  them  still  in  minde 
Why  they  were  made  lords  ;   or  please  humor- 
ous ladies 
With  a  good  carriage,  tell  them  idle  tales. 
To  make  their  physick  work  ;  spend  a  man's  life 
In  sights  and  visitations,  that  will  make  95 

His  eyes  as  hollow  as  his  mistresse  heart : 
To  doe  none  good,  but  those  that  have  no  need  ; 
To  gaine  being  forward,  though  you  break  for 
haste 

80  doe.    A,  doth.  82  me  ?    A,  me  doe. 

92   humorous.    A,  portly. 


lo  yiSn&s^  sr>'^mboi0  [act  i. 

All  the  commandements  ere  you  break  your  fast ; 
But  beleeve  backwards,  make  your  period  loo 

And  creeds  last  article,  "  I  beleeve  in  God"  : 
And   (hearing    villanies    preacht)   t'unfold  their 

art, 
Learne   to   commit  them  ?    Tis   a   great    mans 

part. 
Shall  I  learne  this  there  ? 

Mons.  No,  thou  needst  not  learne ; 

Thou  hast    the    theorie ;    now  goe    there    and 

practise.  105 

Buss.   I,  in  a  thrid-bare  suit;   when  men  come 

there, 
They  must  have  high  naps,  and  goe  from  thence 

bare  : 
A  man  may  drowne  the  parts  of  ten  rich  men 
In  one  poore  suit ;   brave  barks,  and  outward 

glosse 
Attract  Court  loves,  be  in  parts  ne're  so  grosse.  110 
Mons.   Thou  shalt  have  glosse  enough,  and  all 

things  fit 
T'enchase  in  all  shew  thy  long  smothered  spirit : 
Be  rul'd  by  me  then.    The  old  Scythians 
Painted  blinde  Fortunes   powerfull  hands  with 

wings, 

102-3  -^"'^  -    •   •  fart.    Repunctuated  by  ed.     Qq  have:  — 

And  (hearing  villanies  preacht)  t'unfold  their  Art 
Learne  to  commit  them,  Tis  a  great  mans  Part. 

no  lo-ves.    A,  eies.  113   old.    A,  rude. 


Scene  I]  BUfifS^  SD'^mbOlg  II 

To  shew  her  gifts  come  swift  and  suddenly,       115 
Which  if  her  favorite  be  not  swift  to  take, 
He  loses  them  for  ever.    Then  be  wise; 

Exit  Mon[sieur\  with  Pages.     Manet  Buss  \_y\  . 
Stay  but  a  while  here,  and  I'le  send  to  thee. 
Buss.   What  will  he  send  ?   some  crowns  ?    It 

is  to  sow  them 
Upon    my    spirit,    and     make    them    spring    a 

crowne  '^° 

Worth  millions  of   the    seed  crownes  he  will 

send. 
Like  to  disparking  noble  husbandmen, 
Hee'll  put  his  plow  into  me,  plow  me  up ; 
But  his  unsweating  thrift  is  policie. 
And  learning-hating  policie  is  ignorant  ^^^ 

To    fit    his    seed-land    soyl ;    a    smooth    plain 

ground 
Will  never  nourish  any  politick  seed. 
I  am  for  honest  actions,  not  for  great  : 
If  I  may  bring  up  a  new  fashion. 
And  rise  in  Court  for  vertue,  speed  his  plow  !     '3° 
The  King  hath  knowne  me  long  as  well  as  hee. 
Yet  could  my  fortune  never  fit  the  length 
Of  both  their  understandings  till  this  houre. 
There  is  a  deepe  nicke  in  Times  restlesse  wheele 

117  beivise.   Ajberul'd.      IZ2-I2^  Like  ...  ignorant.  A  omits. 
126    To  Jit  /lis  seed-land  soyl.    A,  But  hee's  no  husband  heere. 
110  for.    A,  with. 


1 2  115U00^  E>'0ml)Oi0  [Act  I. 

For  each  mans  good,  when  which  nicke  comes, 

it  strikes  ;  135 

As  rhetorick  yet  workes  not  perswasion. 
But  only  is  a  meane  to  make  it  worke  : 
So  no  man  riseth  by  his  reall  merit. 
But  when  it    cries    "  clincke "  in    his    raisers 

spirit. 
Many  will  say,  that  cannot  rise  at  all,  140 

Mans  first  houres  rise  is  first  step  to  his  fall, 
rie  venture  that ;   men  that  fall  low  must  die. 
As  well  as  men  cast  headlong  from  the  skie. 

£»/[^r]  Maffe. 

[^Maffe.l    Humor  of  Princes  !   Is  this  wretch 
indu'd 
With  any  merit  worth  a  thousand  crownes  ?        145 
Will  my  lord  have  me  be  so  ill  a  steward 
Of  his  revenue,  to  dispose  a  summe 
So  great,  with  so  small  cause  as  shewes  in  him  ? 
I  must  examine  this.    Is  your  name  D'Ambois  ? 

Buss.  Sir  ? 

Maff.  Is  your  name  D'Ambois  ? 

Buss.  Who  have  we  here?  150 

Serve  you  the  Monsieur  ? 

Maff.  How  ? 

Buss.  Serve  you  the  Monsieur  ? 

Maff.  Sir,  y'are  very  hot.      I  doe  serve  the 
Monsieur; 


Scene  I]  )15U0Sf^  SD'^lUbOlg  13 

But  in  such  place  as  gives  me  the  command 
Of  all  his  other  servants  :   and  because 
His  Graces  pleasure  is  to  give  your  good  15s 

His  passe  through  my  command,  me  thinks  you 

might 
Use  me  with  more  respect. 

Buss.  Crie  you  mercy  ! 

Now  you  have  opened  my  dull  eies,  I  see  you, 
And  would  be  glad  to  see  the  good  you  speake  of: 
What  might  I  call  your  name  ? 

Maff.  Monsieur  Maffe.  160 

Buss.  Monsieur  MafFe  ?     Then,  good  Mon- 
sieur Maffe, 
Pray  let  me  know  you  better. 

Maff.  Pray  doe  so. 

That  you  may  use  me  better.    For  your  selfe, 
By  your  no  better  outside,  I  would  judge  you 
To  be  some  poet.      Have  you  given  my  lord       ^^S 
Some  pamphlet  ? 

Buss.  Pamphlet ! 

Maff.  Pamphlet,  sir,  I  say. 

153  After  this  line  B  inserts:  Table,  Chesbord  &  Tapers  behind 
the  Arras.  This  relates  not  to  the  present  Scene,  but  to  Scene  2, 
where  the  King  and  Guise  play  chess  (cf.  i,  2,  184).  Either  it 
has  been  inserted,  by  a  printer's  error,  prematurely  5  or,  more  prob- 
ably, it  may  be  an  instruction  to  the  "  prompter  "  to  see  that 
the  properties  needed  in  the  next  Scene  are  ready,  which  has  crept 
from  an  acting  version  of  the  play  into  the  Quartos. 

156  His  passe.    A,  A  passe. 

157  respect.    A,  good  fashion. 


14  115u0s;^  D';amboi0  [act  i. 

Buss.   Did  your  great  masters  goodnesse  leave 
the  good, 
That  is  to  passe  your  charge  to  my  poore  use, 
To  your  discretion  ? 

Maff.  Though  he  did  not,  sir, 

I  hope  'tis  no  rude  office  to  aske  reason  170 

How  that  his  Grace  gives  me  in  charge,  goes 
from  me  ? 

Buss.  That's  very  perfect,  sir. 

Maff.  Why,  very  good,  sirj 

I  pray,  then,  give  me  leave.    If  for  no  pamphlet, 
May  I  not  know  what  other  merit  in  you 
Makes  his  compunction  willing  to  relieve  you  ?i7s 

Buss.  No  merit  in  the  world,  sir. 

Maff.  That  is  strange. 

Y'are  a  poore  souldier,  are  you  ? 

Buss.  That  I  am,  sir. 

Maff.   And  have  commanded  ? 

Buss.  I,  and  gone  without,  sir. 

Maff.   I    see  the  man  :    a  hundred   crownes 
will  make  him 
Swagger,    and     drinke    healths    to    his    Graces 

bountie,  180 

And  sweare  he  could  not  be  more  bountifull ; 
So  there's   nine   hundred  crounes  sav'd.    Here, 
tall  souldier, 

167  your  great  masters  goodnesse.     A,  his  wise  excellencie. 
170  rude.    A,  bad.  i8o   Graces.    A,  highnes. 


Scene  I]  llBU0Sf^  SD'^ttlbOlS;  15 

His    Grace    hath    sent    you   a   whole  hundred 
crownes. 
Buss.  A  hundred,  sir  !  Nay,  doe  his  Highnesse 
right ; 
I  know  his  hand  is  larger,  and  perhaps  185 

I  may  deserve  more  than  my  outside  shewes. 
I  am  a  poet  as  I  am  a  souldier. 
And  I  can  poetise ;  and  (being  well  encourag'd) 
May  sing  his  fame  for  giving  ;  yours  for  deliver- 
ing 
(Like  a  most  faithfull  steward)  what  he  gives.      190 
Maff.   What  shall  your  subject  be  ? 
Buss.  I  care  not  much 

If  to  his  bounteous  Grace  I  sing  the  praise 
Of  faire  great  noses,  and  to  you  of  long  ones. 
What  qualities  have  you,  sir,  (beside  your  chaine 
And  velvet  jacket)  ?   Can  your  Worship  dance  ?  195 
Maff.  A  pleasant  fellow,  faith  ;  it  seemes  my 
lord 
Will  have  him  for  his  jester ;  and,  berlady. 
Such  men  are  now  no  fooles ;  'tis  a  knights  place. 
If  I  (to  save  his  Grace  some  crounes)  should 
urge  him  ' 

192  bounteous  Grace.    A,  excellence. 

193  and  to  you  of  long  ones.    A  has  :  — 

And  to  your  deserts 

The  reverend  vertues  of  a  faithfull  steward. 

196  pleasant.    A,  merrie.  197  berlady.    A,  beleeve  it. 

199  his  Grace.    A,  my  Lord. 


1 6  Wu&&^  D'^mboisi  [act  i. 

T'abate  his  bountie,  I  should  not  be  heard;         200 
I  would  to  heaven  I  were  an  errant  asse, 
For  then  I  should  be  sure  to  have  the  eares 
Of  these  great  men,  where   now  their  jesters 

have  them. 
Tis  good  to  please  him,  yet  He  take  no  notice 
Of  his  preferment,  but  in  policie  205 

Will  still  be  grave  and  serious,  lest  he  thinke 
I  feare  his  woodden  dagger.   Here,  Sir  Ambo  ! 

Buss.   How,  Ambo,  Sir? 

Maff.  I,  is  not  your  name  Ambo  ? 

Buss.    You  call'd  me  lately  D'Amboys ;  has 
your  Worship 
So  short  a  head  ? 

Maff.  I  cry  thee  mercy,  D'Amboys.  210 

A  thousand  crownes  I  bring  you  from  my  lord  ; 
If  you  be  thriftie,  and  play  the  good  husband, 

you  may  make 
This  a  good  standing  living  •,  'tis  a  bountie. 
His    Highnesse   might    perhaps   have    bestow'd 
better. 

Buss.   Goe,  y'are  a  rascall ;  hence,  away,  you 

rogue  !  \Stri}ies  him.'\  215 

Maff.  What  meane  you,  sir  ? 

Buss.  Hence  !   prate  no  more  ! 

Or,  by  thy  villans  bloud,  thou  prat'st  thy  last ! 

208-210.     HonJi}   .    .    .   D'Amboys.    A  omits. 
212    If  you  he  thriftie,  and.     A,  Serve  God. 


Scene II.]  HBttSfS?^  SD'^mbOtSf  l^ 

A    barbarous    groome    grudge    at    his    masters 

bountie ! 
But  since  I  know  he  would  as  much  abhorre 
His  hinde  should  argue  what  he  gives  his  friend, 220 
Take  that,  Sir,  for  your  aptnesse  to  dispute. 

Exit. 

Maff.  These  crownes  are  set  in  bloud ;  bloud 

be  their  fruit !  Exit. 

[ScENA  Secunda. 

A  room  in  the  Court. '\ 

Henry,  Guise,  Montsurry,  Elenor,  Tamyra,  Beaupre, 
Pero,  Charlotte,  Pyra,  Annable. 

Henry.   Duchesse  of  Guise,  your  Grace   is 

much  enricht 
In  the  attendance  of  that  English  virgin, 
That  will  initiate  her  prime  of  youth, 
(Dispos'd  to  Court  conditions)  under  the  hand 
Of  your  prefer'd  instructions  and  command,  5 

Rather  than  any  in  the  English  Court, 
Whose  ladies  are  not  matcht  in  Christendome 
For  gracefull  and  confirm'd  behaviours. 
More  than  the  Court,  where  they  are  bred,  is 

equall'd. 
Guise.  I  like  not  their  Court-fashion  ;  it  is  too 

crestfalne  10 

2  that.    A,  this.  4  (Ae.   A  omits. 

10    Court-faihion .    A,  Court  forme. 


1 8  515u00^  2D'0mbois(  [acti. 

In  all  observance,  making  demi-gods 
Of  their  great  nobles  ;  and  of  their  old  Queene 
An  ever-yong  and  most  immortall  goddesse. 
Montsurry.   No    question    shee's     the    rarest 

Queene  in  Europe. 
Guis.   But  what's  that  to  her  immortality  ?       15 
Henr.  Assure  you,  cosen   Guise,  so  great  a 

courtier. 
So  full  of  majestic  and  roiall  parts. 
No  Queene  in  Christendome  may  vaunt  her  selfe. 
Her  Court  approves  it :  that's  a  Court  indeed. 
Not    mixt   with   clowneries    us'd    in    common 

houses ;  20 

But,  as  Courts  should  be  th'abstracts  of  their 

Kingdomes, 
In  all  the  beautie,  state,  and  worth  they  hold, 
So  is  hers,  amplie,  and  by  her  inform'd. 
The  world  is  not  contracted  in  a  man. 
With  more  proportion  and  expression,  25 

Than  in  her  Court,  her  kingdome.    Our  French 

Court 
Is  a  meere  mirror  of  confusion  to  it : 
The  king  and  subject,  lord  and  every  slave. 
Dance  a  continuall  haie ;   our  roomes  of  state 
Kept  like  our  stables  ;  no  place  more  observ'd      3© 

II   demi-gods.    A,  semi-gods. 

14-15   No  question   .   .   .  immortality,  A  omits. 

18   -vaunt.    A,  boast.  20  clowneries.    A,  rudenesse. 


Scene  II]  WU$&^  SD'^tttbOtS  IQ 

Than  a  rude  market-place  :  and  though  our  cus- 

tome 
Keepe  this  assur'd  confusion  from  our  eyes, 
'Tis  nere  the  lesse  essentially  unsightly, 
Which  they  would  soone  see,  would  they  change 

their  forme 
To  this  of  ours,  and  then  compare  them  both  ;     35 
Which  we    must  not  affect,  because  in   king- 
domes. 
Where  the  Kings  change  doth  breed  the  sub- 
jects terror. 
Pure  innovation  is  more  grosse  than  error. 

Mont.   No  question  we  shall  see  them  imitate 
(Though  a  farre  off)  the  fashions  of  our  Courts,     40 
As  they  have  ever  ap't  us  in  attire; 
Never  were  men  so  weary  of  their  skins, 
And  apt  to  leape  out  of  themselves  as  they  ; 
Who,  when  they  travell  to  bring  forth  rare  men. 
Come  home  delivered  of  a  fine  French  suit :        45 
Their  braines    lie  with    their    tailors,  and    get 

babies 
For  their  most  compleat  issue ;  hee's  sole  heire 
To  all  the  morall  vertues  that  first  greetes 
The  light  with  a  new  fashion,  which  becomes 

them 
Like  apes,  disfigur'd  with  the  attires  of  men.         50 
Henr.   No  question  they  much  wrong  their 
reall  worth 

32  confuiion.    A,  deformitie.     47  sole  heiie.    A,  first  borne. 


20  115u00^  2l>'^mboi0  [act  i. 

In  afFectation  of  outlandish  scumme  ; 

But  they  have  faults,  and  we  more  :  they  fool- 
ish-proud 

To  jet  in  others  plumes  so  haughtely  ; 

We  proud  that  they  are  proud  of  foolerie,  55 

Holding  our  worthes  more  compleat  for  their 
vaunts. 

Enter  Monsieur,  W  Ambois. 
Monsieur.    Come,  mine  owne  sweet  heart,  I 
will  enter  thee. 
Sir,  I  have  brought  a  gentleman  to  court ; 
And    pray,  you  would  vouchsafe    to    doe  him 
grace. 
Henr.   D'Ambois,  I  thinke. 

Bussy.  That's  still  my  name,  my  lord,  60 

Though  I  be  something  altered  in  attire. 

Henr.   We  like  your  alteration,  and  must  tell 
you. 
We  have  expected  th'ofFer  of  your  service; 
For  we  (in  feare  to  make  mild  vertue  proud) 
Use  not  to  seeke  her  out  in  any  man.  65 

Buss.  Nor  doth  she  use  to  seeke  out  any  man  : 
He  that  will  winne,  must  wooe  her  ;   she's  not 
shameless. 

53  more.  A  omits.  54  To  jet  .  .  .  haughtely.  A,  To  be  the 
pictures  of  our  vanitie.  56  Holding  .  .  .  -vaunts.  A  omits. 
58  a.  A,  this,  to  court.  A,  t'attend  you.  60-61  That'' s  .  .  . 
attire.  Printed  as  prose  in  Qq.  62,  63  We.  A,  I.  67  So  in 
A  :    B  has  only:  They  that  will  winne,  must  wooe  her. 


Scene  II.]  )i5US9i^  W^XllhoiS  21 

Mons.  I  urg'd  her  modestie  in  him,  my  lord. 
And  gave  her  those  rites  that  he  sayes  shee  merits. 

Henr.   If   you  have   woo'd    and    won,  then, 
brother,  weare  him.  7° 

Mons.  Th'art  mine,  sweet  heart !   See,  here's 
the  Guises  Duches  ; 
The  Countesse  of  Mountsurreaue,  Beaupre. 
Come,    rie    enseame   thee.    Ladies,  y'are    too 

many 
To  be  in  counsell  :   I  have  here  a  friend 
That  I  would  gladly  enter  in  your  graces.  75 

Buss.  'Save  you,  ladyes  ! 

Duchess.  If  you  enter  him  in  our  graces,  my 
lord,  methinkes,  by  his  blunt  behaviour  he  should 
come  out  of  himselfe. 

Tamyra.   Has    he   never  beene  courtier,  my  80 
lord  ? 

Mons.  Never,  my  lady. 

Beaupre.  And  why  did  the  toy  take  him  inth' 
head  now  ? 

Buss.  Tis  leape  yeare,  lady,  and  therefore  very  85 
good  to  enter  a  courtier. 

Henr.  Marke,  Duchesse  of  Guise,  there  is 
one  is  not  bashfull. 

Duch.  No  my  lord,  he  is  much  guilty  of  the 
bold  extremity.  90 

71    iiveet  heart.    A,  my  love.      68-75.    I  urg^ d  .    .    .  graces. 
Printed  as  prose  in  Qq.      76   'Sa-veyou,  ladyes!  A  omits. 
87—90   Marke  .    .    .    extremity.     A  omits. 


22  llBu0s;^  D'^mbots!  [act  i. 

Tarn.   The  man's  a  courtier  at  first  sight. 

Buss.  I  can  sing  pricksong,  lady,  at  first 
sight ;  and  why  not  be  a  courtier  as  suddenly  ? 

Beaup.  Here's  a  courtier  rotten  before  he  be 
ripe.  95 

Buss.  Thinke  me  not  impudent,  lady  ;  I  am 
yet  no  courtier ;  I  desire  to  be  one  and  would 
gladly  take  entrance,  madam,  under  your 
princely  colours. 

E?iter  Barrisor,  U  Anou,  Pyrhot. 

Duch.  Soft  sir,  you  must  rise  by  degrees,  first  loo 
being  the  servant  of  some  common  Lady  or 
Knights  wife,  then  a  little  higher  to  a  Lords 
wife  ;  next  a  little  higher  to  a  Countesse  ;  yet  a 
little  higher  to  a  Duchesse,  and  then  turne  the 
ladder.  105 

Buss.  Doe  you  alow  a  man  then  foure  mis- 
tresses, when  the  greatest  mistresse  is  alowed 
but  three  servants  ? 

Duch.   Where  find  you  that  statute  sir. 

Buss.   Why  be  judged  by  the  groome-porters.  no 

Duch.  The  groome-porters  ! 

Buss.  I,  madam,  must  not  they  judge  of  all 
gamings  i'th'  Court  ? 

Duch.  You  talke  like  a  gamester. 

Gui.  Sir,  know  you  me  ?  115 

Enter   .    .    .    Pyrhot.    After  1.   146  in  A. 
100-114  Soft  .    .    .  gamester.    A  omits. 


Scene  II.]  Wn&&^  W^ttlbOiSl  23 

Buss.   My  lord  ! 

Gut.   I  know  not  you  ;  whom  doe  you  serve  ? 

Buss.  Serve,  my  lord  ! 

Gui.  Go  to  companion  ;  your  courtship's  too 
saucie.  i^o 

Buss.  Saucie !  Companion  !  tis  the  Guise, 
but  yet  those  termes  might  have  beene  spar'd  of 
the  guiserd.  Companion  !  He's  jealous,  by  this 
light.  Are  you  blind  of  that  side,  Duke  ?  He 
to  her  againe  for  that.  Forth,  princely  mistresse,  125 
for  the  honour  of  courtship.    Another  riddle. 

Gui.  Cease  your  courtshippe,  or,  by  heaven. 
He  cut  your  throat. 

Buss.   Cut  my  throat  ?  cut  a  whetstone,  young 
Accius     Noevius !    Doe    as    much    with    your  130 
tongue  as  he  did  with  a  rasor.    Cut  my  throat ! 

Barrisor.  What  new-come  gallant  have  wee 
heere,  that  dares  mate  the  Guise  thus  ? 

L  Anou.   Sfoot,  tis  D'Ambois  !   the  Duke  mis- 
takes him  (on  my  life)  for  some  Knight  of  the  135 
new  edition. 

Buss.  Cut  my  throat  !  I  would  the  King 
fear'd  thy  cutting  of  his  throat  no  more  than  I 
feare  thy  cutting  of  mine. 

Gui.   He  doe't,  by  this  hand.  1^0 

124  Duke.    A,  Sir.      125  princely  mistresse.    A,  madam. 
126   Another  riddle.    A  omits.     1Z() young.    A,  good. 
132-139,  and  an  additional  line  :    "  Gui.    So,  sir,  so,"  inserted 
after  1.   146  in  A. 


24  ^U0fifl?  H)'^mboi0  [Act  I. 

Buss.  That  hand  dares  not  doe't ;  y'ave  cut 
too  many  throats  already,  Guise,  and  robb'd  the 
realme  of  many  thousand  soules,  more  precious 
than  thine  owne.  Come,  madam,  talk  on.  Sfoot, 
can  you  not  talk  ?  Talk  on,  I  say.  Another  145 
riddle. 

Pyrhot.   Here's  some  strange  distemper. 

Bar.  Here's  a  sudden  transmigration  with 
D'Ambois,  out  of  the  Knights  ward  into  the 
Duches  bed.  15° 

L' Jn.  See  what  a  metamorphosis  a  brave 
suit  can  work. 

Pyr.  Slight  !  step  to  the  Guise,  and  discover 
him. 

Bar.   By  no  meanes ;   let  the  new  suit  work;  155 
wee'll  see  the  issue. 

Gui.    Leave  your  courting. 

Buss.  I  will  not.  I  say,  mistresse,  and  I  will 
stand  unto  it,  that  if  a  woman  may  have  three 
servants,  a  man  may  have  threescore  mistresses.  160 

Gui.  Sirrha,  He  have  you  whipt  out  of  the 
Court  for  this  insolence. 

Buss.  Whipt !  Such  another  syllable  out  a 
th'presence,  if  thou  dar'st,  for  thy  Dukedome. 

Gui.      Remember,  poultron  !  165 

Mens.   Pray  thee  forbeare  ! 

141-145  Set  as  verse  in  B,  the  lines  ending  in  many,  of,  oivnCy 
talk. 

145-146  Another  riddle.    A,  More  courtship,  as  you  love  It. 


Scene  II.]  Btt00^  BD'^mbOtfi!  25 

Buss.  Passion  of  death  !    Were  not  the  King 
here,  he  should  strow  the  chamber  like  a  rush. 

Mons.   But  leave  courting  his  wife  then. 

Buss.   I  wil  not :   He  court  her  in  despight  of  170 
him.    Not  court  her  !    Come  madam,  talk  on ; 
feare    me    nothing.     [To   Guise.']    Well    mai'st 
thou  drive  thy  master  from  the  Court,  but  never 
D'Ambois. 

Mons.    His   great   heart  will   not   down,   tis 
like  the  sea,  ^75 

That  partly  by  his  owne  internall  heat, 
Partly  the  Starrs  daily  and  nightly  motion, 
Their  heat  and  light,  and  partly  of  the  place 
The  divers  frames,  but  chiefly  by  the  moone. 
Bristled  with  surges,  never  will  be  wonne,  180 

(No,  not  when  th'hearts  of  all  those  powers  are 

burst) 
To  make  retreat  into  his  setled  home, 
Till  he  be  crown'd  with  his  owne  quiet  fome. 

Henr.   You  have  the  mate.      Another  ? 
Gui.  No  more.      Flourish  short. 

Exit  Guise  ;  after  him  the  King,  Mons  [ieur]  whis- 
pering. 

Bar.     Why  here's  the   lion  skar'd  with  the  185 
throat   of   a   dunghill    cock,  a   fellow  that  has 
newly   shak'd   off  his   shackles  ;   now   does   he 
crow  for  that  victory. 

178    Their  heat.      A,  Ardor. 


26  BU00^  W^mhoiS  [Act  I. 

U An.  Tis  one  of  the  best  jiggs  that  ever 
was  acted.  190 

Pyr.  Whom  does  the  Guise  suppose  him  to 
be,  troe  ? 

D An.  Out  of  doubt,  some  new  denizond 
Lord,  and  thinks  that  suit  newly  drawne  out  a 
th'  mercers  books.  195 

Bar.  I  have  heard  of  a  fellow,  that  by  a  fixt 
imagination  looking  upon  a  bulbaiting,  had  a 
visible  paire  of  homes  grew  out  of  his  forhead  : 
and  I  beleeve  this  gallant  overjoyed  with  the 
conceit  of  Monsieurs  cast  suit,  imagines  him- 200 
selfe  to  be  the  Monsieur. 

V  An.  And  why  not  ?  as  well  as  the  asse 
stalking  in  the  lions  case,  bare  himselfe  like  a 
lion,  braying  all  the  huger  beasts  out  of  the 
forrest  ?  205 

Pyr.  Peace  !   he  looks  this  way. 

Bar.  Marrie,  let  him  look,  sir  ;  what  will  you 
say  now  if  the  Guise  be  gone  to  fetch  a  blanquet 
for  him  ? 

U  An.   Faith,  I  beleeve  it,  for  his  honour  sake.  210 

Pyr.   But,  if  D'Ambois  carrie  it  cleane  ? 

Exeunt  Ladies. 

Bar.  True,  when  he  curvets  in  the  blanquet. 

Pyr.   I,  marrie,  sir. 

V An.  Sfoot,  see  how  he  stares  on's. 

Bar.   Lord  blesse  us,  let's  away.  ^'S 

204  braying.  A,  roaring. 


Scene  II. ]  115tt0fi(^  SD'^mbOt^  2; 

Buss.  Now,  sir,  take  your  full  view  :  who 
does  the  object  please  ye  ? 

Bar.  If  you  aske  my  opinion,  sir,  I  think 
your  suit  sits  as  well  as  if 't  had  beene  made  for 
you.  220 

Buss.  So,  sir,  and  was  that  the  subject  of  your 
ridiculous  joylity  ? 

UJn.  What's  that  to  you,  sir  ? 

Buss.   Sir,  I   have  observ'd  all  your  fleerings  ; 
and  resolve  your  selves  yee  shall  give  a  strickt225 
account  for't. 

Enter  Brisac,  Melynell. 

Bar.  O  miraculous  jealousie  !  Doe  you  think 
your  selfe  such  a  singular  subject  for  laughter 
that  none  can  fall  into  the  matter  of  our  merri- 
ment but  you  ?  230 

U An.  This  jealousie  of  yours,  sir,  confesses 
some  close  defect  in  your  selfe  that  wee  never 
dream'd  of. 

Tyr.   Wee  held  discourse  of  a  perfum'd  asse, 
that   being  disguis'd   in    a   lions  case  imagin'd235 
himself  a  lion  :   I  hope  that  toucht  not  you. 

Buss.  So,  sir  ?  Your  descants  doe  marvellous 
well  fit  this  ground ;  we  shall  meet  where  your 
buffonly  laughters  will  cost  ye  the  best  blood  in 
your  bodies.  24° 

227  miraculous  jealousie.  A,  strange  credulitie.  229  tie  mat- 
ter of.  A  omits.  227-231  0  .  .  .  you.  Printed  as  three  lines  of 
verse,  ending  in  selfe,  into,  you.      235  in.    A,  with. 


28  115u0S^  SD'^mboi0  [act  i. 

Bar.  For  lifes  sake,  let's  be  gone  j  hee'll  kill's 
outright  else. 

Buss.  Goe,  at  your  pleasures ;  He  be  your 
ghost  to  haunt  you ;  and  yee  sleepe  an't,  hang 
me.  245 

V An.   Goe,  goe,  sir ;  court  your  mistresse. 

Pyr.  And  be  advis'd ;  we  shall  have  odds 
against  you. 

Buss.  Tush,  valour  stands  not  in  number:  He 
maintaine  it  that  one  man  may  beat  three  boyes.  250 

Brisac.  Nay,  you  shall  have  no  ods  of  him  in 
number,  sir ;  hee's  a  gentleman  as  good  as  the 
proudest  of  you,  and  yee  shall  not  wrong  him. 

Bar.   Not,  sir  ? 

Melynell.   Not,  sir;  though  he  be  not  so  rich,  25  5 
hee's  a  better  man  than  the  best  of  you ;  and  I 
will  not  endure  it. 

L An.  Not  you,  sir  ? 

Bris.   No,  sir,  nor  I. 

Buss.  I  should  thank  you  for  this  kindnesse,  260 
if  I  thought  these  perfum'd  musk-cats  (being 
out  of  this  priviledge)  durst  but  once  mew  at  us. 

Bar.  Does  your  confident  spirit  doubt  that, 
sir  ?    Follow  us  and  try. 

V An.  Come,  sir,  wee'll  lead  you  a  dance.      265 

Exeunt. 

241   ehe.    A  omits. 
J^inis  Actus  Primi. 


Actus  SECUND[i.]    Scena  Prima. 

[y^  Room  in  the  Court. '\ 

Henry,  Guise,  Montsurry,  and  Attendants. 

Henry.    This  desperate   quarrell   sprung  out 
of  their  envies 
To  D'Ambois  sudden  bravery,  and  great  spirit. 

Guise.   Neither  is  worth  their  envie. 

Henr.  Lesse  than  either 

Will  make  the  gall  of  envie  overflow ; 
She  feeds  on  outcast  entrailes  like  a  kite :  5 

In  which  foule  heape,  if  any  ill  lies  hid, 
She  sticks  her  beak  into  it,  shakes  it  up. 
And  hurl's  it  all  abroad,  that  all  may  view  it. 
Corruption  is  her  nutriment ;  but  touch  her 
With  any  precious  oyntment,  and  you  kill  her.     10 
Where  she  finds  any  filth  in  men,  she  feasts, 
And   with   her   black   throat   bruits    it   through 

the  world 
Being  sound  and  healthfull ;  but  if  she  but  taste 
The  slenderest  pittance  of  commended  vertue. 
She  surfets  of  it,  and  is  like  a  flie  15 

That  passes  all  the  bodies  soundest  parts, 
And  dwels  upon  the  sores  ;   or  if  her  squint  eie 

Montsurry,  and  Attendants.     A,  Beaumond,  Nuncius. 
II    fVhere.    A,  When. 


30  115u00^  SE>'^mboi0  [act  u. 

Have  power  to  find  none  there,  she  forges  some  : 
She  makes  that  crooked  ever  which  is  strait ; 
Calls  valour  giddinesse,  justice  tyrannic:  20 

A  wise  man  may  shun  her,  she  not  her  selfe ; 
Whither  soever  she  flies  from  her  harmes. 
She  beares  her  foe  still  claspt  in  her  own  armes  : 
And  therefore,  cousen  Guise,  let  us  avoid  her. 
Enter  Nuncius. 
Nuncius.  What  Atlas  or  Olympus    lifts  his 

head  *S 

So  farre  past  covert,  that  with  aire  enough 
My   words   may   be    inform'd,  and    from   their 

height 
I  may  be  scene  and  heard  through  all  the  world  ? 
A  tale  so  worthy,  and  so  fraught  with  wonder, 
Sticks  in  my  jawes,  and  labours  with  event.  30 

Henr.   Com'st  thou  from  D'Ambois  ? 
Nun.  From  him,  and  the  rest, 

His  friends  and  enemies  ;    whose  sterne  fight  I 

saw. 
And  heard  their  words  before,  and  in  the  fray. 
Henr.   Relate  at  large  what  thou  hast  scene 

and  heard. 
Nun.    I   saw  fierce   D'Ambois   and    his   two 
brave  friends  35 

Enter  the  field,  and  at  their  heelcs  their  foes ; 
Which  were  the  famous  souldiers,  Barrisor, 

47  their.      A,  his. 


Scene  I]  113Ufiffi(^  SD'^mbOlfif  3 1 

L'Anou,  and  Pyrrhot,  great  in  deeds  of  armes. 
All  which  arriv'd  at  the  evenest  peece  of  earth 
The  field  afforded,  the  three  challengers  4° 

Turn'd  head,  drew  all  their  rapiers,  and  stood 

ranck't ; 
When   face  to  face   the   three   defendants  met 

them. 
Alike  prepar'd,  and  resolute  alike. 
Like  bonfires  of  contributorie  wood 
Every  mans  look  shew'd,  fed  with  cithers  spirit ;  45 
As  one  had  beene  a  mirror  to  another, 
Like  formes  of  life  and  death  each  took  from 

other  ; 
And  so  were  life  and  death  mixt  at  their  heights. 
That  you  could  see  no  feare  of  death,  for  life. 
Nor  love  of  life,  for  death  :   but  in  their  browes  50 
Pyrrho's  opinion  in  great  letters  shone  : 
That  life  and  death  in  all  respects  are  one. 
Henr.   Past  there  no  sort  of  words  at  their 

encounter  ? 
Nun.  As  Hector,  twixt  the  hosts  of  Greece 

and  Troy, 
(When  Paris  and  the  Spartane  King  should  end     55 
The    nine    yeares  warre)    held  up    his    brasen 

launce 
For  signall  that  both  hosts   should  cease  from 

armes. 
And  heare  him  speak ;   so  Barrisor  (advis'd) 


32  llBu0sip  D'^mbois;  [act  n. 

Advanc'd  his  naked  rapier  twixt  both  sides, 

Ript  up  the  quarrell,  and  compar'd  six  lives  60 

Then  laid  in  ballance  with  six  idle  words ; 

Offer'd  remission  and  contrition  too, 

Or  else  that  he  and  D'Ambois  might  conclude 

The  others  dangers.     D'Ambois  lik'd  the  last ; 

But  Barrisors  friends  (being  equally  engag'd  65 

In  the  maine  quarrell)  never  would  expose 

His  life  alone  to  that  they  all  deserv'd. 

And  for  the  other  offer  of  remission 

D'Ambois  (that  like  a  lawrell  put  in  fire 

Sparkl'd  and   spit)  did    much    much  more    than 

scorne  70 

That   his  wrong    should    incense   him   so    like 

chaffe, 
To  goe  so  soone  out,  and  like  lighted  paper 
Approve  his  spirit  at  once  both  fire  and  ashes. 
So  drew  they  lots,  and  in  them  Fates  appointed, 
That  Barrisor  should  fight  with  firie  D'Ambois;  75 
Pyrhot  with  Melynell,  with  Brisac  L'Anou  ; 
And  then,  like  flame  and  powder,  they  commixt 
So  spritely,  that  I  wisht  they  had  beene  spirits. 
That  the  ne're  shutting  wounds  they  needs  must 

open 
Might,  as  they  open'd,  shut,  and  never  kill.  80 

But  D'Ambois  sword  (that  lightned  as  it  flew) 
Shot  like  a  pointed  comet  at  the  face 

70   sparkl'd.     So  in  A  ;    B,  Spakl'd. 


Scene  I]  115USf0^  SD'^mbOlfl!  33 

Of  manly  Barrisor,  and  there  it  stucke  : 
Thrice   pluckt    he    at    it,   and   thrice   drew   on 

thrusts 
From  him  that  of  himselfe  was  free  as  fire,  85 

Who  thrust   still  as   he   pluckt ;  yet  (past  be- 

liefe  !) 
He  with  his  subtile  eye,  hand,  body,  scap't. 
At  last,  the  deadly  bitten  point  tugg'd  ofF, 
On  fell  his  yet  undaunted  foe  so  fiercely. 
That  (only  made  more  horrid  with  his  wound)     90 
Great    D'Ambois    shrunke,  and    gave    a    little 

ground  ; 
But  soone  return'd,  redoubled  in  his  danger, 
And  at  the  heart  of  Barrisor  seal'd  his  anger. 
Then,  as  in  Arden  I  have  scene  an  oke 
Long  shooke  with  tempests,  and  his  loftie  toppe  95 
Bent  to  his  root,  which  being  at  length  made 

loose 
(Even    groaning   with    his   weight),  he   gan   to 

nodde 
This  way  and  that,  as  loth  his  curled  browes 
(Which   he    had    oft   wrapt    in   the    skie  with 

stormes) 
Should  stoope  :   and  yet,  his  radicall  fivers  burst,  100 
Storme-like  he  fell,  and  hid  the  feare-cold  earth — 
So  fell  stout  Barrisor,  that  had  stood  the  shocks 
Of  ten  set  battels  in  your  Highnesse  warre, 
'Gainst  the  sole  souldier  of  the  world,  Navarre. 


34  )15u00^  W^mhois  [act  ii. 

Gut.   O  pitious  and  horrid  murther  ! 

[^Montsurry.'j  Such  a  life  105 

Me  thinks  had  mettall  in  it  to  survive 
An  age  of  men. 

Henr.  Such  often  soonest  end.  — 

Thy  felt  report  cals  on  ;  -we  long  to  know 
On  what  events  the  other  have  arriv'd. 

Nun.   Sorrow  and  fury, like  two  opposite  fumes  no 
Met  in  the  upper  region  of  a  cloud, 
At  the  report  made  by  this  worthies  fall, 
Brake  from  the  earth, and  with  them  rose  Revenge, 
Entring  with  fresh  powers  his  two  noble  friends  ; 
And  under  that  ods  fell  surcharg'd  Brisac,  115 

The  friend  of  D'Ambois,  before  fierce  L'Anou  ; 
Which  D'Ambois  seeing,  as  I  once  did  see, 
In  my  young  travels  through  Armenia, 
An  angrie  unicorne  in  his  full  cariere 
Charge  with  too  swift  a  foot  a  jeweller,  120 

That  watcht  him  for  the  treasure  of  his  brow, 
And,  ere  he  could  get  shelter  of  a  tree, 
Naile  him  with  his  rich  antler  to  the  earth  : 
So  D'Ambois  ranne  upon  reveng'd  L'Anou, 
Who  eying  th'eager  point  borne  in  his  face,         125 
And  giving  backe,  fell  back  ;   and,  in  his  fall. 
His  foes  uncurbed  sword  stopt  in  his  heart : 
By  which  time  all  the  life  strings  of  th'  tw'other 

105    [Mow/jarry.]  Emend,  ed.:  Beau.  Qq ;  see  note  30,  p.  149. 
120  afoot.    A,  an  eie.  128   th\    A,  the. 


Scene!.]  115USf0^  2D'^mbOtg;  35 

Were  cut,  and  both  fell,  as  their  spirit  flew, 
Upwards,  and  still  hunt  Honour  at  the  view.      130 
And  now  (of  all  the  six)  sole  D'Ambois  stood 
Untoucht,  save  only  with  the  others  bloud. 

Henr.   All  slaine  outright  .? 

Nun.  All  slaine  outright  but  he, 

Who  kneeling  in  the  warme  life  of  his  friends, 
(All  freckled  with  the  bloud  his  rapier  raind)       135 
He  kist  their  pale  lips,  and  bade  both  farewell : 
And  see  the  bravest  man  the  French  earth  beares ! 

[^Exit  Nu?itius.'\ 

Enter  Monsieur,  D^ Amb^oii]  bare. 
Bussy.  Now  is  the  time  ;  y'are  princely  vow'd 
my  friend ; 
Perform  it  princely,  and  obtaine  my  pardon. 
Monsieur.  Else  Heaven  forgive  not  me!   Come 

on,  brave  friend  !  H© 

If  ever  Nature  held  her  selfe  her  owne. 
When  the  great  triall  of  a  King  and  subject 
Met  in  one  bloud,  both  from  one  belly  springing. 
Now  prove  her  vertue  and  her  greatnesse  one. 
Or  make  the  t'one  the  greater  with  the  t'other,  145 
(As  true  Kings  should)  and   for  your  brothers 

love 
(Which  is  a  speciall  species  of  true  vertue) 
Doe  that  you  could  not  doe,  not  being  a  King. 

129  spirit.      A,  spirits.       133   All  slaine  outright?      So  in  A  j 
B,  All  slaine  outright  but  hee  ?    135  freckled.  A,  feebled. 


36  115u00^  D'^mbots;  [act  ii. 

Henr.   Brother,  I  know  your  suit ;  these  wil- 

full  murthers 
Are  ever  past  our  pardon. 

Mons.  Manly  slaughter        150 

Should  never  beare  th'account  of  wilfull  mur- 

ther, 
It  being  a  spice  of  justice,  where  with  life 
Offending  past  law  equall  life  is  laid 
In  equall  ballance,  to  scourge  that  offence 
By  law  of  reputation,  which  to  men  155 

Exceeds  all  positive  law  ;  and  what  that  leaves 
To  true  mens  valours  (not  prefixing  rights 
Of  satisfaction  suited  to  their  wrongs) 
A  free  mans  eminence  may  supply  and  take. 
Henr.    This    would    make    every    man    that 

thinks  him  wrong'd,  160 

Or  is  offended,  or  in  wrong  or  right. 
Lay  on  this  violence ;  and  all  vaunt  themselves 
Law-menders    and     supplyers,    though     meere 

butchers, 
Should  this  fact,  though  of  justice,  be  forgiven. 
Mons.     O    no,    my    Lord !     it   would    make 

cowards  feare  165 

To  touch  the  reputations  of  true  men. 
When  only  they  are  left  to  impe  the  law. 
Justice  will  soone  distinguish  murtherous  minds 
From  just  revengers.   Had  my  friend  beene  slaine, 

166   true.      A,  full. 


Scene  I]  )15Ufif0^  D'^mbOlg  37 

His  enemy  surviving,  he  should  die,  170 

Since  he  had  added  to  a  murther'd  fame 
(Which  was  in  his  intent)  a  murthered  man  ; 
And  this  had  worthily  beene  wilfull  murther ; 
But  my  friend  only  sav'd  his  fames  deare  life. 
Which  is  above  life,  taking  th'under  value  175 

Which  in  the  wrong  it  did  was  forfeit  to  him  ; 
And  in  this  fact  only  preserves  a  man 
In  his  uprightnesse,  worthy  to  survive 
Millions  of  such  as  murther  men  alive. 

Henr.  Well,  brother,  rise,  and  raise  your  friend 

withall  180 

From  death  to  life  :  and,  D' Ambois,  let  your  life 
(Refin'd  by  passing  through  this  merited  death) 
Be  purg'd  from  more  such  foule  pollution  ; 
Nor  on  your  scape,  nor  valour,  more  presuming 
To  be  again  so  violent. 

Buss.  My  Lord,  185 

I  lothe  as  much  a  deed  of  unjust  death, 
As  law  it  selfe  doth  ;  and  to  tyrannise, 
Because  I  have  a  little  spirit  to  dare. 
And  power  to  doe,  as  to  be  tyranniz'd. 
This  is  a  grace  that  (on  my  knees  redoubled)      190 
I  crave,  to  double  this  my  short  lifes  gift, 
And  shall  your  royal  bountie  centuple. 
That  I  may  so  make  good  what  Law  and  Nature 
Have  given  me  for  my  good  :   since  I  am  free, 

185   'violent.    So  in  A  ;   B,  daring. 


38  15uS0^  SD'^ntbois!  [Act  ii. 

(Offending  no  just  law)  let  no  law  make,  195 

By  any  wrong  it  does,  my  life  her  slave  : 
When  I  am  wrong'd,  and  that   Law  failes    to 

right  me. 
Let  me  be  King  my  selfe  (as  man  was  made) 
And  doe  a  justice  that  exceeds  the  Law: 
If  my  wrong  passe  the  power  of  single  valour    200 
To  right  and  expiate,  then  be  you  my  King, 
And  doe  a  right,  exceeding  Law  and  Nature. 
Who  to  himselfe  is  law,  no  law  doth  need, 
offends  no  law,  and  is  a  King  indeed. 

Henr.   Enjoy   what   thou    intreat'st,  we  give 

but  ours.  205 

Buss.  What  you  have  given,  my  lord,  is  ever 
yours.  Exit  Rex  cum  ^Montsurry.^ 

Gut.  Mort   dieu^  who   would   have   pardon'd 
such  a  murther  ?  Exit. 

Mons.   Now  vanish  horrors  into  Court  attrac- 
tions 
For  which  let  this  balme  make  thee  fresh  and 

faire ! 
And  now  forth  with  thy  service  to  the  Duchesse,2io 
As  my  long  love  will  to  Monsurries  Countesse. 

Exit. 

204  laiu.    A,  King.      206  cum  \Montsurrf r\  Emend,  ed. :  Qq, 
cum  Beau.     See  note  30,  p.   149.      207  Mort  dieu.  A  ;   B  omits. 
210— 2i8   And  n 01V   .    .    ,   hated.      A  omits,  inserting  instead: 

Buss.   How  shall  I  quite  your  love  .' 

Mons.  Be  true  to  the  end. 

I  have  obtained  a  kingdome  with  my  friend. 


Scene  II. ]  )15uW  ED'^mbOlg  39 

Buss,   To   whom   my    love   hath   long   been 

vow'd  in  heart, 
Although  in  hand,  for  shew,  I  held  the  Duchesse. 
And  now  through  bloud  and  vengeance,  deeds 

of  height, 
And  hard  to  be  atchiev'd,  tis  fit  I  make  215 

Attempt  of  her  perfection.    I  need  feare 
No  check  in  his  rivality,  since  her  vertues 
Are  so  renown'd,  and  hee  of  all  dames  hated. 

Exit. 

[Actus  Secundi  Scena  Secunda. 
A  Room  in  Montsurrj" s  House.'] 
Montsur\ry\,  Tamyra,  Beaupre,  Pero,  Charlotte,  Pyrha. 

Montsurry.   He  will  have  pardon,  sure. 

Tamyra.  Twere  pittie  else: 

For  though  his  great  spirit  something  overflow. 
All  faults  are   still  borne,  that  from  greatnesse 

grow : 
But  such  a  sudden  courtier  saw  I  never. 

Beaupre.   He  was  too  sudden,  which  indeed 

was  rudenesse.  5 

Tarn.  True,  for  it  argued  his  no  due  conceit 
Both  of  the  place,  and  greatnesse  of  the  persons, 
Nor  of  our  sex:  all  which  (we  all  being  strangers 

i-^()  He  ivill  .    .   .   Woai.  These  lines  and  the  direction,  ilibnf- 
sur  .    .    .    Pyrha,  are  found  in  A  only. 


40  Wn$&v  SE>'^mboi0  [act  ii. 

To  his  encounter)  should  have  made  more  maners 
Deserve  more  welcome. 

Mont.  All  this  fault  is  found   lo 

Because  he  lov'd  the  Duchesse  and  left  you. 

Tarn.   Ahlas,  love  give  her  joy  !   I  am  so  farre 
From  envie  of  her  honour,  that  I  sweare, 
Had  he  encounterd  me  with  such  proud  sleight, 
I  would  have  put  that  project  face  of  his  is 

To  a  more  test  than  did  her  Dutchesship. 

Beau.     Why    (by   your  leave,   my   lord)    He 
speake  it  heere, 
(Although    she   be    my    ante)    she    scarce   was 

modest, 
When  she  perceived  the  Duke,  her  husband,  take 
Those  late  exceptions  to  her  servants  courtship,  20 
To  entertaine  him. 

Tarn.  I,  and  stand  him  still. 

Letting  her  husband  give  her  servant  place  : 
Though  he  did  manly,  she  should  be  a  woman. 

Enter  Guise. 
\_Guhe^     D'Ambois    is    pardond !    wher's  a 
King  I   where  law  ? 
See  how  it  runnes,  much  like  a  turbulent  sea ;      25 
Heere  high  and  glorious,  as  it  did  contend 
To  wash  the  heavens,  and  make  the  stars  more 

pure  ; 
And  heere  so  low,  it  leaves  the  mud  of  hell 


Scene  II.]  H^U&Si^  2r>'^mljOi0  4 1 

To  every  common  view.   Come,  Count  Mont- 

surry, 
We  must  consult  of  this. 

Tarn.  Stay  not,  sweet  lord.   30 

Mont.   Be  pleased ;   He  strait  returne. 

Exit  cum  Guise, 
Tarn.  Would  that  would  please  me  ! 

Beau.    He   leave  you,  madam,  to  your  pas- 
sions \ 
I  see  ther's  change  of  weather  in  your  lookes. 

Exit  cum  suis. 
Tarn.    I    cannot   cloake  it ;    but,  as  when  a 
fume. 
Hot,   drie,   and   grosse,  within   the   wombe  of 

earth  35 

Or  in  her  superficies  begot, 
When  extreame  cold  hath  stroke  it  to  her  heart. 
The  more  it  is  comprest,  the  more  it  rageth. 
Exceeds  his  prisons  strength  that  should  con- 

taine  it. 
And  then  it  tosseth  temples  in  the  aire,  40 

All  barres  made  engines  to  his  insolent  fury  : 
So,  of  a  sudden,  my  licentious  fancy 
Riots  within  me  :   not  my  name  and  house. 
Nor  my  religion  to  this  houre  observ'd. 
Can  stand  above  it ;   I  must  utter  that  45 

That  will  in  parting  breake  more  strings  in  me. 
Than  death  when  life  parts ;  and  that  holy  man 


42  Buflfsp  W^mhois         [act  n. 

That,  from  my  cradle,  counseld  for  my  soule, 
I  now  must  make  an  agent  for  my  bloud. 
E»ier  Monsieur. 
Monsieur.  Yet  is  my  mistresse  gratious  ? 
Tarn.  •  Yet  unanswered  ?   so 

Mons.   Pray  thee  regard  thine  owne  good,  if 
not  mine. 
And  cheere  my  love  for  that :   you  doe  not  know 
What  you  may  be  by  me,  nor  what  without  me ; 
I  may  have  power  t'advance  and  pull  downe  any. 
Tarn.  That's  not  my  study.   One  way  I  am 

sure  55 

You  shall  not  pull  downe  me ;    my  husbands 

height 
Is  crowne  to  all  my  hopes,  and  his  retiring 
To  any  meane  state,  shall  be  my  aspiring. 
Mine  honour's  in   mine   owne  hands,  spite   of 
kings. 
Mons.    Honour,  what's    that  ?    your    second 

maydenhead  :  60 

And  what  is  that  ?   a  word  :   the  word  is  gone, 
The   thing   remaines ;    the   rose  is   pluckt,  the 

stalk 
Abides  :   an  easie  losse  where  no  lack's  found. 
Beleeve  it,  there's  as  small  lack  in  the  losse 
As  there  is  paine  ith'  losing.   Archers  ever  65 

50  B,  which  begins  the  scene  with  this  line,  inserts  before  it : 
Enter  Monsieur,  Tamyra,  and  Pero  ivith  a  booke. 


Scene  II. ]  51BU00^  HD'^mbOtfi  43 

Have   two    strings  to  a  bow,   and   shall   great 
Cupid 

(Archer  of  archers  both  in  men  and  women) 

Be  worse  provided  than  a  common  archer  ? 

A  husband  and  a  friend  all  wise  wives  have. 
Tarn.    Wise   wives   they   are    that   on    such 
strings  depend,  70 

With  a  firme  husband  joyning  a  lose  friend. 
Mons.    Still  you  stand  on  your  husband ;   so 
doe  all 

The  common  sex  of  you,  when  y'are  encoun- 
ter'd 

With  one  ye  cannot  fancie  :   all  men  know 

You  live  in  Court  here  by  your  owne  election,     75 

Frequenting   all   our   common    sports   and    tri- 
umphs. 

All  the  most  youthfuU  company  of  men. 

And  wherefore  doe  you  this  ?    To  please  your 
husband  ? 

Tis  grosse  and  fulsome  :   if  your  husbands  plea- 
sure 

Be  all  your  object,  and  you  ayme  at  honour          go 

In  living  close  to  him,  get  you  from  Court, 

You  may  have   him  at  home ;   these  common 
put-ofs 

For  common  women  serve  :  "  my  honour  !  hus- 
band !  " 

71  joyning  a  lose.    A,  weighing  a  dissolute. 
76  common.    A,  solemne. 


44  115u0flf^  SD'^mboifl!  [act  ii. 

Dames  maritorious  ne're  were  meritorious  : 
Speak  plaine,  and  say  "  I  doe  not  like  you,  sir,    85 
Y'are  an  ill-favour'd  fellow  in  my  eye," 
And  I  am  answer'd. 

Tarn.  Then  I  pray  be  answer'd  : 

For  in  good  faith,  my  lord,  I  doe  not  like  you 
In  that  sort  you  like. 

Mons.  Then  have  at  you  here  ! 

Take  (with  a  politique  hand)  this  rope  of  pearle  ;  90 
And  though  you  be  not  amorous,  yet  be  wise  : 
Take  me  for  wisedom  ;  he  that  you  can  love 
Is  nere  the  further  from  you. 

Tarn.  Now  it  comes 

So  ill  prepar'd,  that  I  may  take  a  poyson 
Under  a  medicine  as  good  cheap  as  it :  95 

I  will  not  have  it  were  it  worth  the  world. 

Mons.    Horror  of  death  !    could  I  but  please 
your  eye. 
You   would  give  me  the   like,  ere  you  would 

loose  me. 
*'  Honour  and  husband  !  " 

Tam.  By  this  light,  my  lord, 

Y'are  a  vile  fellow ;  and  He  tell  the  King  100 

Your  occupation  of  dishonouring  ladies. 
And  of  his  Court.    A  lady  cannot  live 
As  she  was  borne,  and  with  that  sort  of  plea- 
sure 
That  fits  her  state,  but  she  must  be  defam'd 


Scene  II.]  115U00V1  a^'^mbOlSf  45 

With  an  infamous  lords  detraction  :  105 

Who  would  endure  the  Court  if  these  attempts, 
Of  open  and  profest  lust  must  be  borne  ?  — 
Whose  there  ?   come  on,  dame,  you  are  at  your 

book 
When  men  are  at  your  mistresse ;  have  I  taught 

you 
Any  such  waiting  womans  quality  ?  no 

Mons.   Farewell,  good  "  husband  "  ! 

Exit  Mons  [^ieur'\ . 
Tarn.  Farewell,  wicked  lord  ! 

Enfer  Mont  [surry^ . 

Mont.  Was  not  the  Monsieur  here  ? 

Tani.  Yes,  to  good  purpose  ; 

And  your  cause  is  as  good  to  seek  him  too. 
And  haunt  his  company. 

Mont.  Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Tarn.  Matter  of   death,   were   I  some   hus- 
bands wife :  "5 
I  cannot  live  at  quiet  in  my  chamber 
For  oportunities  almost  to  rapes 
Offerd  me  by  him. 

Mont.  Pray  thee  beare  with  him  : 

Thou  know'st  he  is  a  bachelor,  and  a  courtier, 
I,  and  a  Prince  :   and  their  prerogatives  120 

Are  to  their  lawes,  as  to  their  pardons  are 
Their  reservations,  after  Parliaments  — 


46  BU00^  2D'^mboi0  [Act  II. 

One  quits  another  ;  forme  gives  all  their  essence. 
That    Prince   doth    high    in   vertues    reckoning 

stand 
That  will  entreat  a  vice,  and  not  command  :       125 
So  farre  beare  with  him  ;   should  another  man 
Trust  to  his  priviledge,  he  should  trust  to  death  ; 
Take  comfort  then  (my  comfort),  nay,  triumph, 
And  crown  thy  selfe  ;  thou  part'st  with  victory  : 
My  presence  is  so  onely  deare  to  thee  130 

That  other  mens  appeare  worse  than  they  be  : 
For  this  night   yet,  beare  with  my  forced  ab- 
sence: 
Thou   know'st    my   businesse ;  and    with    how 

much  weight 
My  vow  hath  charged  it. 

Tam.  True,  my  lord,  and  never 

My  fruitlesse  love  shall  let  your  serious  honour  ;  135 
Yet,  sweet   lord,   do   no    stay  ;  you   know  my 

soule 
Is  so  long  time  with  out  me,  and  I  dead, 
As  you  are  absent. 

Mont.  By  this  kisse,  receive 

My  soule  for  hostage,  till  I  see  my  love. 
Tam.  The  morne  shall  let  me  see  you  ? 
Mont.  With  the  sunne  140 

He  visit  thy  more  comfortable  beauties. 

Tam.  This  is  my  comfort,  that  the  sunne  hath 
left 

135  honour.     A,  profit. 


Scene  II. ]  BU00^  SD'^ttlbOtg  47 

The  whole  worlds  beauty  ere  my  sunne  leaves 

me. 
Mont.   Tis  late  night  now,  indeed  :   farewell, 

my  light  !  Exit. 

Tarn.   Farewell,  my  light  and  life  !   but  not  in 

him,  145 

In  mine  owne  dark  love  and  light  bent  to  an- 
other. 
Alas  !   that  in  the  wane  of  our  affections 
We  should  supply  it  with  a  full  dissembling, 
In  which  each  youngest  maid  is  grown  a  mother. 
Frailty  is  fruitfull,  one  sinne  gets  another:  150 

Our  loves  like  sparkles  are  that  brightest  shine 
When  they  goe  out  ;   most  vice  shewes  most 

divine. 
Goe,  maid,  to  bed  ;   lend  me  your  book,  I  pray. 
Not,  like  your  selfe,  for  forme.    He  this  night 

trouble 
None  of  your  services  :   make  sure  the  dores,      155 
And  call  your  other  fellowes  to  their  rest. 

Per.   I  will  —  yet   I  will  watch  to  know  why 

you  watch.  Exit. 

Tarn.   Now  all  yee  peacefull  regents  of  the 

night. 
Silently-gliding  exhalations. 
Languishing  windes,  and    murmuring    falls    of 

waters,  160 

146  In  .  .  .  another.    A  omits. 

147  -wane.    Emend.,  Dilke  j   Qq,   wave.         158  yee.    A,  the. 


48  )15uflfs;^  SD'^mbois;         [act  n. 

Sadnesse  of  heart,  and  ominous  securenesse, 
Enchantments,  dead   sleepes,  all  the  friends  of 

rest. 
That  ever  wrought  upon  the  life  of  man. 
Extend  your  utmost  strengths,  and  this  charm'd 

houre 
Fix  like  the  Center  !   make  the  violent  wheeles  165 
Of  Time  and  Fortune  stand,  and  great  Existens, 
(The  Makers  treasurie)  now  not  seeme  to  be 
To  all  but  my  approaching  friends  and  me  ! 
They  come,  alas,  they  come  !    Feare,  feare  and 

hope 
Of  one  thing,  at  one  instant,  fight  in  me  :  170 

I  love  what  most  I  loath,  and  cannot  live, 
Unlesse  I  compasse  that  which  holds  my  death ; 
For  life's  meere  death,  loving  one  that  loathes 

me, 
And  he  I  love  will  loath  me,  when  he  sees 
I  flie  my  sex,  my  vertue,  my  renowne,  175 

To  runne  so  madly  on  a  man  unknowne. 

The  Vault  opens. 
See,  see,  a  vault  is  opening  that  was  never 
Knowne  to  my  lord  and  husband,  nor  to  any 

172  ivhich.    A,  that. 

173  For  life's  .    .    .   me.    A,  For  love  is  hatefull  without  love 
againe. 

TAe  Vault  opens.    B  places  this  after  173  ;  A  omits. 
177-181    See  .  .  .  in.    Instead  of  these  lines,  A  has: 

See,  see  the  gulfe  is  opening  that  will  swallow 
Me  and  my  fame  forever  ;  I  will  in. 


Scene  II.]  115U00^  W^mbotS  49 

But  him  that  brings  the  man  I  love,  and  me. 
How  shall  I  looke  on  him  ?   how  shall  I  live,      i8o 
And  not  consume  in  blushes  ?   I  will  in  ; 
And  cast  my  selfe  off,  as  I  ne're  had  beene. 

Exit. 
Ascendit  Frier  and  D'  Ambois. 

Friar.    Come,  worthiest    sonne,   I   am    past 

measure  glad 
That    you  (whose  worth  I   have    approv'd    so 

long) 
Should  be  the  object  of  her  fearefull  love  ;  185 

Since  both  your  wit  and  spirit  can  adapt 
Their  full   force  to  supply  her    utmost  weak- 

nesse. 
You  know  her  worths  and  vertues,  for  report 
Of  all  that  know  is  to  a  man  a  knowledge  : 
You  know  besides  that  our  affections  storme,     190 
Rais'd  in  our  blood,  no  reason  can  reforme. 
Though  she  seeke  then  their  satisfaction 
(Which  she  must  needs,  or  rest  unsatisfied) 
Your  judgement  will   esteeme  her  peace    thus 

wrought 
Nothing   lesse   deare  than    if   your    selfe     had 

sought :  195 

And  (with  another  colour,  which  my  art 
Shall  teach  you  to  lay  on)  your  selfe  must  seeme 
The  only  agent,  and  the  first  orbe  move 
In  this  our  set  and  cunning  world  of  love. 


50  Bufiisf^  2r)'^mboi0         [act  n. 

Bussy.  Give  me  the  colour  (my  most  honour'd 
father)  200 

And  trust  my  cunning  then  to  lay  it  on. 

Fri.  Tis  this,  good  sonne  :  —  Lord  Barrisor 
(whom  you  slew) 
Did  love  her  dearely,  and  with  all  fit  meanes 
Hath  urg'd  his  acceptation,  of  all  which 
Shee  keepes  one  letter  written  in  his  blood  :        205 
You  must  say  thus, then:  that  you  heard  from  mee 
How  much  her  selfe  was  toucht  in  conscience 
With  a  report  (which  is  in  truth  disperst) 
That  your  maine  quarrell  grew  about  her  love, 
Lord  Barrisor  imagining  your  courtship  210 

Of  the  great  Guises  Duchesse  in  the  Presence 
Was  by  you  made  to  his  elected  mistresse  : 
And  so  made  me  your  meane  now  to  resolve  her, 
Chosing  by  my  direction  this  nights  depth, 
For  the  more  cleare  avoiding  of  all  note  215 

Of  your  presumed  presence.    And  with  this 
(To  cleare  her  hands  of  such  a  lovers  blood) 
She  will  so  kindly  thank  and  entertaine  you 
(Me  thinks  I  see  how),  I,  and  ten  to  one. 
Shew  you  the  confirmation  in  his  blood,  220 

Lest  you  should  think  report  and  she  did  faine, 
That  you  shall  so  have  circumstantiall  meanes 
To  come  to  the  direct,  which  must  be  used  : 
For  the  direct  is  crooked  ;  love  comes  flying ; 
The  height  of  love  is  still  wonne  with  denying.  225 


Scene  II.]  115U00^  SD'^mbOlg  5 1 

Buss.  Thanks,  honoured  father. 

Fri.  Shee  must  never  know 

That  you  know  any  thing  of  any  love 
Sustain'd  on  her  part :  for,  learne  this  of  me, 
In  any  thing  a  woman  does  alone, 
If  she  dissemble,  she  thinks  tis  not  done ;  230 

If  not  dissemble,  nor  a  little  chide. 
Give  her  her  wish,  she  is  not  satisfi'd ; 
To  have  a  man  think  that  she  never  seekes 
Does  her  more  good  than  to  have  all  she  likes: 
This  frailty  sticks  in  them  beyond  their  sex,       23s 
Which  to  reforme,  reason  is  too  perplex  : 
Urge  reason  to  them,  it  will  doe  no  good  ; 
Humour  (that  is  the  charriot  of  our  food 
In  every  body)  must  in  them  be  fed, 
To  carrie  their  affections  by  it  bred.  24° 

Stand  close  ! 

Enter  Tamyra  with  a  book. 

Tarn.  Alas,  I  fear  my  strangenesse  will  retire 
him. 
If  he  goe  back,  I  die ;   I  must  prevent  it, 
And  cheare  his  onset  with  my  sight  at  least. 
And   that's   the    most ;  though    every   step    he 

takes  245 

Goes  to  my  heart.    He  rather  die  than  seeme 
Not  to  be  strange  to  that  I  most  esteeme. 

Fri.   Madam  ! 

•with  a  hook.    A  omits. 


5i  115U00V  2r>'^mboi0  [act  n. 

Tarn.  Ah ! 

Fri.  You  will  pardon  me,  I  hope, 

That  so  beyond  your  expectation, 
(And  at  a  time  for  visitants  so  unfit)  250 

I  (with  my  noble  friend  here)  visit  you  : 
You  know  that  my  accesse  at  any  time 
Hath  ever  beene  admitted  ;  and  that  friend, 
That  my  care  will  presume  to  bring  with  me. 
Shall  have  all  circumstance  of  worth  in  him        255 
To  merit  as  free  welcome  as  myselfe. 

Tarn.   O  father,  but  at  this  suspicious  houre 
You  know  how  apt  best  men  are  to  suspect  us 
In  any  cause  that  makes  suspicious  shadow 
No  greater  than  the  shadow  of  a  haire ;  260 

And  y'are  to  blame.    What  though  my  lord  and 

husband 
Lie  forth  to  night,  and  since  I  cannot  sleepe 
When  he  is  absent  I  sit  up  to  night; 
Though  all  the  dores  are  sure,  and  all  our  ser- 
vants 
As  sure  bound  with  their  sleepes ;  yet  there  is 

One  265 

That  wakes  above,  whose  eye   no   sleepe  can 

binde  : 
He  sees  through  dores,  and  darknesse,  and  our 

thoughts  ; 
And  therefore  as  we  should  avoid  with  feare 

266   ivaies.     A,  sits. 


Scene  II.  ]  HBuSSf^  SD'^mtjOiSf  53 

To  think  amisse  our  selves  before  his  search, 

So  should  we  be  as  curious  to  shunne  270 

All  cause  that  other  think  not  ill  of  us. 

Buss.   Madam,  'tis   farre    from  that :   I   only 

heard 
By  this  my  honour'd  father  that  your  conscience 
Made  some  deepe  scruple  with  a  false  report 
That  Barrisors   blood    should    something  touch 

your  honour,  275 

Since  he  imagin'd  I  was  courting  you 
When   I   was   bold   to  change  words   with  the 

Duchesse, 
And  therefore  made  his  quarrell,  his  long  love 
And  service,  as  I  heare,  beeing  deepely  vowed 
To  your  perfections  ;  which  my  ready  presence,  280 
Presum'd  on  with  my  father  at  this  season 
For  the  more  care  of  your  so  curious  honour, 
Can  well  resolve  your  conscience  is  most  false. 
Tarn.  And  is  it  therefore  that  you  come,  good 

sir  ? 
Then  crave  I  now  your  pardon  and  my  fathers,  285 
And   sweare  your  presence   does  me  so  much 

good 
That  all  I  have  it  bindes  to  your  requitall. 
Indeed  sir,  'tis  most  true  that  a  report 

274  Made  some  deepe  scruple.    A,  Was  something  troubled. 

275  honour.    A,  hand. 

278—280   his  long  lo've   .    .    .  perfections.    A  omits. 

280  ready.    A  omits.  286  good.    A,  comfort. 


54  y5n$si^  SD'^mbois  [act  ii. 

Is  spread,  alleadging  that  his  love  to  me 
Was  reason  of  your  quarrell ;  and  because  290 

You  shall  not  think  I  faine  it  for  my  glory 
That  he  importun'd  me  for  his  Court  service, 
I'le  shew^  you  his  own  hand,  set  down  in  blood, 
To  that  vaine  purpose  :   good  sir,  then  come  in. 
Father,  I  thank  you  now  a  thousand  fold.  29s 

Exit  Tamyra  and  Z)'  Amb  \oif\  . 
Fri.    May  it   be  worth   it  to   you,  honour'd 
daughter !  Descendit  Fryar. 


Finis  Actus  Secundi. 


Actus  Tertii  Scena  Prima. 

[^  Room  in  Montsurrf  s  House. ~^ 

Enter  D'  Ambois,   Tamyra,  with  a  chaine  of  pear  le. 

Bussy.    Sweet    mistresse,   cease !    your    con- 
science is  too  nice, 
And  bites  too  hotly  of  the  Puritane  spice. 

Tamyra.   O,  my  deare  servant,  in  thy  close 
embraces 
I  have  set  open  all  the  dores  of  danger 
To  my  encompast  honour,  and  my  life  :  5 

Before  I  was  secure  against  death  and  hell ; 
But  now  am  subject  to  the  heartlesse  feare 
Of  every  shadow,  and  of  every  breath, 
And  would  change  firmnesse  with  an  aspen  leafe  : 
So  confident  a  spotlesse  conscience  is,  10 

So  weake  a  guilty.   O,  the  dangerous  siege 
Sinne  layes  about  us,  and  the  tyrannic 
He  exercises  when  he  hath  expugn'd  ! 
Like  to  the  horror  of  a  winter's  thunder, 
Mixt  with  a  gushing  storme,  that  suffer  nothing   15 
To  stirre  abroad  on  earth  but  their  own  rages. 
Is  sinne,  when  it  hath  gathered  head  above  us ; 

Enter  D" Ambois  .   .   .  pearle.    A,  Bucy,  Tamyra. 
1-2   Siveet  .  .  .  spice.     A  omits. 


56  JBnsisi^  2D'^mbot0  [act  m. 

No  roofe,  no  shelter  can  secure  us  so, 

But  he  will  drowne  our  cheeks  in  feare  or  woe. 

Buss.   Sin  is  a  coward,  madam,  and  insults        20 
But  on  our  weaknesse,  in  his  truest  valour  : 
And  so  our  ignorance  tames  us,  that  we  let 
His  shadowes  fright  us  :   and  like  empty  clouds 
In  which  our  faulty  apprehensions  forge 
The  formes  of  dragons,  lions,  elephants,  25 

When  they  hold  no  proportion,  the  slie  charmes 
Of  the  witch  policy  makes  him  like  a  monster 
Kept  onely  to  shew  men  for  servile  money  : 
That  false  hagge  often  paints  him  in  her  cloth 
Ten  times  more  monstrous  than  he  is  in  troth.    30 
In  three  of  us  the  secret  of  our  meeting 
Is  onely  guarded,  and  three  friends  as  one 
Have  ever  beene  esteem'd,  as  our  three  powers 
That  in  our  one  soule  are  as  one  united  : 
Why  should  we    feare  then  ?   for   my  selfe,  I 

sweare,  35 

Sooner  shall  torture  be  the  sire  to  pleasure. 
And  health  be  grievous  to  one  long  time  sick, 
Than  the  deare  Jewell  of  your  fame  in  me 
Be  made  an  out-cast  to  your  infamy  ; 
Nor  shall  my  value  (sacred  to  your  vertues)  40 

Onely  give  free  course  to  it  from  my  selfe, 

28  ser'vik.    A,  Goddesse. 

34  our  one.    So  in  A  :   B  omits  our. 

35  selfe.    A,  truth.  37   one.    A,  men. 


Scene  I]  115U0g^  SD'^mbOlfii  57 

But  make  it  flie  out  of  the  mouths  of  Kings 
In  golden  vapours,  and  with  awfull  wings. 
T am.  It  rests  as  all  Kings  scales  were  set  in 
thee. 
Now  let  us  call  my  father,  whom  I  sweare  45 

I  could  extreamly  chide,  but  that  I  feare 
To  make  him  so  suspicious  of  my  love, 
Of  which  (sweet  servant)  doe  not  let  him  know 
For  all  the  world. 

Buss.  Alas  !  he  will  not  think  it. 

Tarn.   Come  then  —  ho  !    Father,   ope     and 
take  your  friend.  5° 

Ascendit  Frier. 
Fri.   Now,  honour'd   daughter,  is  your  doubt 

resolv'd  ? 
Tarn.     I,    father,    but    you    went    away  too 

soone. 
Fri.  Too  soone  ! 

Tarn.  Indeed  you  did;  you  should 

have  stayed  ; 
Had  not  your  worthy  friend  beene  of  your  bring- 
ing. 
And  that  containes  all  lawes  to  temper  me,  55 

Not  all  the  fearefull  danger  that  besieged  us 
Had  aw'd  my  throat  from  exclamation. 

Fri.   I  know  your  serious  disposition  well. 
Come,  Sonne,  the  morne  comes  on. 

45-61  Noiu  let  .  .  .  Descendit  Frier  and  D'  Amb[ois'\.    A  omits. 


58  llBugfif^  D'^mboifif  [act  m. 

Buss.  Now,  honour'd  mistresse, 

Till  farther  service  call,  all  blisse  supply  you  !       60 

Tarn.  And  you  this  chaine  of  pearle,  and  my 

love  onely  ! 

Descendit  Frier  and  D'' Anib^ois\. 
It  is  not  I,  but  urgent  destiny 
That  (as  great  states-men  for  their  generall  end 
In  politique  justice  make  poore  men  offend) 
Enforceth  my  offence  to  make  it  just.  65 

What   shall   weak   dames  doe,  when   th'  whole 

work  of  Nature 
Hath  a  strong  finger  in  each  one  of  us  ? 
Needs  must  that  sweep  away  the  silly  cobweb 
Of  our  still-undone  labours,  that  layes  still 
Our  powers  to  it,  as  to  the  line,  the  stone,  70 

Not  to  the  stone,  the  line  should  be  oppos'd. 
We  cannot  keepe  our  constant  course  in  vertue  : 
What  is  alike  at  all  parts  ?  every  day 
Differs  from  other,  every  houre  and  minute ; 
I,  every  thought  in  our  false  clock  of  life  75 

Oft  times  inverts  the  whole  circumference  : 
We  must  be  sometimes  one,  sometimes  another. 
Our  bodies  are  but  thick  clouds  to  our  soules. 
Through  which   they  cannot  shine  when   they 

desire. 
When  all  the  starres,  and  even  the  sunne  him- 

selfe,  80 

Must  stay  the  vapours  times  that  he  exhales 


Scene  I]  )15U0fl(^  2D'^ml»i0  59 

Before  he  can  make  good  his  beames  to  us, 
O  how  can  we,  that  are  but  motes  to  him, 
Wandring  at  random  in  his  ordered  rayes, 
Disperse   our   passions    fumes,  with   our  weak 

labours,  85 

That  are  more  thick  and  black  than  all  earths 
vapours  ? 

Enter  Mont  ^surry'^ . 
Mont.   Good   day,   my   love !    what,  up  and 

ready  too  ! 
Tarn.   Both    (my    deare  lord) :    not    all    t;his 
night  made  I 
My  selfe  unready,  or  could  sleep  a  wink. 

Mont.  Alas,  what  troubled  my  true  love,  my 
peace,  9° 

From  being  at  peace  within  her  better  selfe  ? 
Or  how  could   sleepe   forbeare   to   seize   thine 

eyes. 
When    he    might  challenge    them   as   his  just 
prise  ? 
Tarn.   I  am  in  no  powre  earthly,  but  in  yours. 
To  what  end  should  I  goe  to  bed,  my  lord,  95 

That  wholly  mist  the  comfort  of  my  bed  ? 
Or  how  should  sleepe  possesse  my  faculties. 
Wanting  the  proper  closer  of  mine  eyes  ? 

Mont.  Then  will  I  never  more  sleepe  night 
from  thee  : 

92  thine  eies.      A,  thy  beauties. 


6o  J5U&&^  W>'3im\}0i&  [Act  III. 

All  mine  owne  businesse,  all  the  Kings  affaires,  loo 

Shall  take  the  day  to  serve  them  ;  every  night 

He  ever  dedicate  to  thy  delight. 

Tarn.   Nay,  good  my  lord,  esteeme  not  my 
desires 

Such  doters  on  their  humours  that  my  judge- 
ment 

Cannot  subdue  them  to  your  worthier  pleasure  :  105 

A  wives  pleas'd  husband  must  her  object  be 

In  all  her  acts,  not  her  sooth'd  fantasie. 

Mont.  Then  come,  my  love,  now  pay  those 
rites  to  sleepe 

Thy  faire  eyes  owe  him :  shall  we  now  to  bed  ? 
Tarn.   O  no,  my  lord!   your  holy  frier  sayes   no 

All  couplings  in  the  day  that  touch  the  bed 

Adulterous  are,  even  in  the  married ; 

Whose  grave  and  worthy  doctrine,  well  I  know. 

Your  faith  in  him  will  liberally  allow. 

Mont.   Hee's    a   most   learned    and   religious 
man.  115 

Come  to    the    Presence    then,    and    see    great 
D'Ambois 

(Fortunes  proud  mushrome  shot  up  in  a  night) 

Stand  like  an  Atlas  under  our  Kings  arme ; 

Which    greatnesse    with    him    Monsieur    now 
envies 

As  bitterly  and  deadly  as  the  Guise.  120 

118  under  our  Kings  arme.    A,  underneath  the  King. 


Scene  II.]  115U00^  2E>'^mboifif  6 1 

Tarn.  What !   he  that  was  but  yesterday  his 

maker, 
His  raiser,  and  preserver  ? 

Mont.  Even  the  same. 

Each  naturall  agent  works  but  to  this  end, 
To  render  that  it  works  on  like  it  selfe ; 
Which  since  the  Monsieur  in  his  act  on  D'Am- 

bois  1*5 

Cannot  to  his  ambitious  end  effect, 
But  that  (quite  opposite)  the  King  hath  power 
(In  his  love  borne  to  D'Ambois)  to  convert 
The   point   of  Monsieurs   aime   on    his   owne 

breast, 
He  turnes  his  outward  love  to  inward  hate  :        130 
A  princes  love  is  like  the  lightnings  fume. 
Which  no  man  can  embrace,  but  must  consume. 

Exeunt. 

[Actus  Tertii  Scena  Secunda. 

A  room  in  the  Court. '\ 

Henry,  Z)'  Ambois,  Monsieur,  Guise,  Dutches,  Annabell, 
Chariot,  Attendants. 

Henry.   Speak  home,  my  Bussy  !   thy  impar- 
tiall  words 
Are  like  brave  faulcons  that  dare  trusse  a  fowle 

Henry  .  .  .  Attendants.    A,  Henry,  D^  Amboisj  Monsieur,  Guise, 
Mont.,  Elenor,   Tarn.,  Pero.  I    my.  A;    B  omits. 


62  )15u00^  W^mboisi  [act  m. 

Much  greater  than   themselves  ;    flatterers  are 

kites 
That  check   at   sparrowes ;   thou  shalt   be    my 

eagle, 
And  beare  my  thunder  underneath  thy  wings  : 
Truths  words  like  jewels  hang  in  th'eares  of 

kings. 
Bussy.    Would  I  might  live  to  see  no  Jewes 

hang  there 
In  steed  of  jewels  —  sycophants,  I  meane, 
Who  use  Truth  like  the  Devill,  his  true  foe, 
Cast  by  the  angell  to  the  pit  of  feares,  lo 

And  bound  in  chaines ;    Truth  seldome  decks 

kings  eares. 
Slave  flattery  (like  a  rippiers  legs  rowl'd  up 
In  boots  of  hay-ropes)  with  kings  soothed  guts 
Swadled  and  strappl'd,  now  lives  onely  free. 
O,  tis  a  subtle  knave;  how  like  the  plague  if 

Unfelt  he  strikes  into  the  braine  of  man. 
And  rageth  in  his  entrailes  when  he  can. 
Worse  than  the  poison  of  a  red  hair'd  man. 
Henr.   Fly  at  him  and  his  brood  !   I  cast  thee 

off, 
And  once  more  give  thee  surname  of  mine  eagle,  ao 
Buss.   lie  make  you  sport  enough,  then.    Let 

me  have 
My  lucerns  too,  or  dogs  inur'd  to  hunt 

4  sparroives.    A,  nothing.  l6  man.    A,  truth. 


Scene  II]  )15Ufif01?  SD'^mbOtfl;  63 

Beasts  of  most  rapine,  but  to  put  them  up, 
And  if  I  trusse  not,  let  me  not  be  trusted. 
Shew  me  a  great  man  (by  the  peoples  voice,         25 
Which  is  the  voice  of  God)  that  by  his  great- 

nesse 
Bumbasts  his  private  roofes  with  publique  riches  ; 
That  affects  royaltie,  rising  from  a  clapdish  ; 
That    rules   so  much   more   than    his    suffering 

King, 
That  he  makes  kings  of  his  subordinate  slaves  :   3° 
Himselfe  and  them  graduate  like  woodmongers 
Piling  a  stack  of  billets  from  the  earth. 
Raising  each  other  into  steeples  heights  ; 
Let  him  convey  this  on  the  turning  props 
Of  Protean  law,  and  (his  owne  counsell  keeping)  35 
Keepe  all  upright  —  let  me  but  hawlk  at  him. 
He  play  the  vulture,  and  so  thump  his  liver 
That  (like  a  huge  unlading  Argosea) 
He  shall  confesse  all,  and  you  then  may  hang 

him. 
Shew  me  a  clergie  man  that  is  in  voice  40 

A  lark  of  heaven,  in  heart  a  mowle  of  earth  ; 
That  hath  good  living,  and  a  wicked  life  ; 
A  temperate  look,  and  a  luxurious  gut ; 
Turning  the  rents  of  his  superfluous  cures 
Into  your  phesants  and  your  partriches  ;  45 

Venting  their    quintessence   as    men   read    He- 
brew — 

29   than.     So  in  A  ;    B,  by. 


64  BUSf0^  2D'^mljOtSf  [Act  III. 

Let  me  but  hawlk  at  him,  and  like  the  other, 
He  shall  confesse  all,  and  you  then  may  hang 

him. 
Shew  me  a  lawyer  that  turnes  sacred  law 
(The  equall  rendrer  of  each  man  his  owne,  50 

The  scourge  of  rapine  and  extortion. 
The  sanctuary  and  impregnable  defence 
Of  retir'd  learning  and  besieged  vertue) 
Into  a  Harpy,  that  eates  all  but's  owne. 
Into  the  damned  sinnes  it  punisheth,  55 

Into  the  synagogue  of  theeves  and  atheists ; 
Blood  into  gold,  and  justice  into  lust  :  — 
Let  me  but  hawlk  at  him,  as  at  the  rest. 
He  shall  confesse  all,  and  you  then  may  hang 

him. 

Enter  Mont-surrey,  Tamira  and  Pero. 
Gui.   Where  will  you  find  such  game  as  you 

would  hawlk  at  ?  60 

Buss.  He  hawlk  about  your  house  for  one  of 

them. 
Gui.   Come,  y'are  a  glorious  ruffin  and  runne 

proud 
Of  the  Kings  headlong  graces  ;  hold  your  breath. 
Or,  by  that  poyson'd  vapour,  not  the  King 
Shall  back  your  murtherous  valour  against  me.     65 
Buss.   I   would    the    King  would    make    his 

presence  free 

53   besieged.    A,  oppressed.  58   the  rest.    A,  the  tother. 


Scene  II.]  315USi0^  SD'^mbOlSf  65 

But  for  one  bout  betwixt  us  :  by  the  reverence 
Due  to  the  sacred  space  twixt  kings  and  sub- 
jects, 
Here  would  I  make  thee  cast  that  popular  pur- 
ple 
In  which  thy  proud   soule   sits  and  braves  thy 

soveraigne.  70 

Mom.  Peace,  peace,  I  pray  thee,  peace  ! 

Bms.  Let  him  peace  first 

That  made  the  first  warre, 

Mons.  He's  the  better  man. 

Buss.  And,  therefore,  may  doe  worst  ? 

Mons.  He  has  more  titles. 

Buss.  So  Hydra  had  more  heads. 

Mons.  He's  greater  knowne. 

Buss.   His  greatnesse  is  the  peoples,  mine's 

mine  owne.  75 

Mons.   He's  noblier  borne. 

Buss.  He  is  not  ;  I  am  noble, 

And  noblesse  in  his  blood  hath  no  gradation. 
But  in  his  merit. 

Gui.  Th'art  not  nobly  borne. 

But  bastard  to  the  Cardinall  of  Ambois. 

Buss.  Thou  liest,  proud  Guiserd  ;  let  me  flie, 
my  Lord  !  80 

67  bout.    A,  charge. 

•ji—'jx  Three  lines  in  (Jq,  i.e.  Peace  .  .  .  thee  peace  \  Let .    .    . 
•warre  \     He^s  .    .    .   man. 

76  noblier.    Emend,  ed.  Qq,  nobly  ;  see  note,  p.   154. 


66  llBufiis;^  SD'^mbois;         [act  m. 

Henr.  Not  in   my  face,  my  eagle  !   violence 

flies 
The  sanctuaries  of  a  princes  eyes. 

Buss.  Still  shall  we  chide,  and  fome  upon  this 

bit? 
Is  the  Guise  onely  great  in  faction  ? 
Stands  he  not  by  himselfe  ?   Proves  he  th'opinion  85 
That   mens   soules    are  without   them  ?     Be  a 

duke. 
And  lead  me  to  the  field. 

Guis.  Come,  follow  me. 

Henr.   Stay  them  !   stay,  D'Ambois  !     Cosen 

Guise,  I  wonder 
Your  honour'd  disposition  brooks  so  ill 
A  man  so  good  that  only  would  uphold  9° 

Man  in  his  native  noblesse,  from  whose  fall 
All  our  dissentions  rise ;  that  in  himselfe 
(Without  the  outward  patches  of  our  frailty, 
Riches  and  honour)  knowes  he  comprehends 
Worth    with    the    greatest.    Kings    had    never 

borne  95 

Such  boundlesse  empire  over  other  men. 
Had    all    maintain'd    the    spirit    and    state    of 

D'Ambois  ; 
Nor  had  the  full  impartiall  hand  of  Nature, 
That  all  things  gave  in  her  originall 

88  Stay  .    .    .   D'Ambois.      B,  Stay  them,  stay  D'Ambois. 

89  honour''d.     A,  equall.  96   empire.     A,  eminence. 


Scene  II.]  115U00^  SD'^tttbOtS!  67 

Without    these    definite    terms    of    Mine    and 

Thine,  ^°° 

Beene  turn'd  unjustly  to  the  hand  of  Fortune, 
Had  all  preserv'd  her  in  her  prime  like  D'Am- 

bois  ; 
No  envie,  no  disjunction  had  dissolv'd. 
Or  pluck'd  one  stick  out  of  the  golden  faggot 
In  which  the  world  of  Saturne  bound  our  lifes,io5 
Had  all  beene  held  together  with  the  nerves. 
The  genius,  and  th'ingenious  soule  of  D'Am- 

bois. 
Let  my  hand  therefore  be  the  Hermean  rod 
To  part  and  reconcile,  and  so  conserve  you, 
As  my  combin'd  embracers  and  supporters.  "o 

Buss.  Tis  our  Kings  motion,  and  we   shall 
not  seeme 
To  worst   eies   womanish,  though   we   change 

thus  soone 
Never  so  great  grudge  for  his  greater  pleasure. 
Gui.   I  seale  to  that,  and  so  the  manly  free- 
dome. 
That  you  so  much  pro fesse,  hereafter  prove  not  115 
A  bold  and  glorious  licence  to  deprave. 
To  me  his  hand  shall  hold  the  Hermean  vertue 
His  grace  affects,  in  which  submissive  signe 
On  this  his  sacred  right  hand  I  lay  mine. 

104  one  stick  out.  A,  out  one  sticke.  105  bound  our  lifes. 
A,  was  compris'd.  107  ingenious.  A,  ingenuous.  117  Ao/d. 
A,  proove.    -vertue.    A,  rodde. 


68  BU00^  2E)'^mbOt0  [Act  III. 

Buss.   Tis  well,  my  lord,  and   so  your  worthy 

greatnesse  120 

Decline  not  to  the  greater  insolence, 
Nor  make  you  think  it  a  prerogative 
To  rack  mens  freedomes  with  the  ruder  wrongs. 
My  hand  (stuck  full  of  lawrell,  in  true  signe 
Tis  wholly  dedicate  to  righteous  peace)  125 

In  all  submission  kisseth  th'other  side. 

Henr.  Thanks  to  ye  both  :   and  kindly  I  in- 
vite ye 
Both  to  a  banquet  where  weele  sacrifice 
Full  cups  to  confirmation  of  your  loves  ; 
At  which  (faire  ladies)  I  entreat  your  presence  5130 
And  hope  you,  madam,  will  take  one  carowse 
For  reconcilement  of  your  lord  and  servant. 
Duchess.   If   I    should    faile,  my   lord,  some 
other  lady 
Would  be  found  there  to  doe  that  for  my  ser- 
vant. 
Mons.  Any  of  these  here  ? 

Duch.  Nay,  I  know  not  that.  135 

Buss.   Think  your  thoughts  like  my  mistresse, 

honour'd  lady  ? 
Tamyra.  I  think  not  on  you,  sir ;  y'are  one 
I  know  not. 

121    Decline  not  to.    A,  Engender  not. 

131-138   And  hope  .    .   .  D' Amb\^ois'],  Ladies.   Omitted  in  A, 
which)  after  130  has  :   Exeunt  Henry,  D^Amb.,  Ely.   Ta. 


scENi  II.]        Il5ufl(0^  W3inihoi&  69 

Buss.   Cry  you  mercy,  madam  ! 

Montsurry.  Oh  sir,  has  she  met  you? 

Exeunt  Henry,  W Amb\oi5\,  Ladies. 

Mons.   What  had   my  bounty  drunk  when  it 
rais'd  him  ? 

Gut.  Y'ave  stuck  us  up  a  very  worthy  flag,    140 
That  takes   more  winde  than  we  with   all   our 
sailes. 

Mons.  O,  so  he  spreds  and  flourishes. 

Gui,  He  must  downe  ; 

Upstarts  should  never  perch  too  neere  a  crowne. 

Mons.   Tis  true,  my  lord  ;  and  as  this  doting 
hand 
Even  out  of  earth  (like  Juno)  struck  this  giant,  145 
So  Joves  great  ordinance  shall  be  here  implide 
To  strike  him  under  th'i^Ltna  of  his  pride. 
To  which  work  lend  your  hands,  and  let  us  cast 
Where  we  may  set  snares  for  his  ranging  great- 

nes. 
I  think  it  best,  amongst  our  greatest  women:     150 
For  there  is  no  such  trap  to  catch  an  upstart 
As  a  loose  downfall ;  for,  you  know,  their  falls 
Are  th'ends  of  all  mens  rising.    If  great  men 
And  wise  make  scapes  to  please  advantage, 
Tis  with  a  woman  —  women  that  woorst  may    155 
Still  hold  mens  candels  :   they  direct  and  know 

140  ivorthy.    A,  proper.  149  ranging.    A,  gadding. 

153  for,  you  knoiu.    A,  and  indeed. 


yo  ^u0b;^  ffi>'^mbot0         [act  m. 

All  things  amisse  in  all  men,  and  their  women 
All    things    amisse     in    them  ;  through    whose 

charm'd  mouthes 
We  may  see  all  the  close  scapes  of  the  Court. 
When    the    most    royall    beast    of    chase,    the 

hart,  i6o 

Being  old,  and  cunning  in  his  layres  and  haunts, 
Can  never  be  discovered  to  the  bow, 
The  peece,  or  hound  —  yet  where,  behind  some 

queich. 
He  breaks  his  gall,  and  rutteth  with  his  hinde, 
The  place  is  markt,  and  by  his  venery  165 

He  still  is  taken.    Shall  we  then  attempt 
The  chiefest  meane  to  that  discovery  here, 
And  court  our  greatest  ladies  chiefest  women 
With  shewes  of  love,  and  liberall  promises  ? 
Tis  but  our  breath.    If  something  given  in  hand  170 
Sharpen    their   hopes    of   more,   'twill    be   well 

ventur'd. 
Gui.    No   doubt  of  that :    and  'tis  the  cun- 

ningst  point 
Of  our  devis'd  investigation. 

160—161    the  hart,  Being  old,   and  cunning   in   his.    A,  being 
old,  And  cunning  in  his  choice  of. 

163-164  "where  .    .    .   his  hinde.  A  has  :  — 

Where  his  custome  is 
To  beat  his  vault,  and  he  ruts  with  his  hinde. 

168   chiefest.    A,  greatest. 

172   the  cunningst.    A,  an  excellent. 


Scene  II.]  BU00^  SD'^ttlbOtg  7^ 

Mons.  I  have  broken 

The  yce  to  it  already  with  the  woman 
Of  your  chast  lady,  and  conceive  good  hope        175 
I  shall  wade  thorow  to  some  wished  shore 
At  our  next  meeting. 

Mont.  Nay,  there's  small  hope  there. 

Gui.    Take  say  of  her,  my  lord,  she  comes 
most  fitly. 

Mons.  Starting  back  ? 

Enter  Chariot,  Anable,  Pero. 

Gui.  Y'are  ingag'd  indeed.  180 

Annahle.   Nay  pray,  my  lord,  forbeare. 

Mont.  What,  skittish,  servant  ? 

An.  No,  my  lord,  I  am  not  so  fit  for  your 
service. 

Charlotte.   Nay,   pardon    me   now,   my   lord;  185 
my  lady  expects  me. 

Gui.   He  satisfie  her  expectation,  as  far  as  an 
unkle  may. 

Mons.   Well  said  !   a  spirit  of  courtship  of  all 

173—177   I  hwve  broken   .    .    .    hope  there.    A  has  :  — 

I  have  already  broke  the  ice,  my  lord. 

With  the  most  trusted  woman  of  your  Countesse, 

And  hope  I  shall  wade  through  to  our  discovery. 

178  Gui.    A,  Mom.   omitting  the  speech  Nay  .    .    .   there. 

179  Starting   back.     Omitted   in   A,    which   instead  continues 
Montsurry's  speech  with  :    And  we  will  to  the  other. 

180  indeed.    A  omits.  185    Nay.    A,  Pray. 
189-193    Well  said  .    .    .   to  thee.    Printed  in  doggerel  form  in 

Qq,  the  lines  ending  with  hands,  me,  mistresse,  thee. 


72  51Bu00^  2r>'^mboi0         [acthi. 

hands.    Now,  mine  owne   Pero,  hast  thou  re- 190 
membred  me  for  the  discovery  I  entreated  thee 
to  make  of  thy  mistresse  ?    Speak  boldly,  and  be 
sure  of  all  things  I  have  sworne  to  thee. 

Pero.   Building  on  that  assurance  (my  lord)  I 
may  speak;    and  much  the  rather  because  my  195 
lady  hath  not  trusted  me  with  that  I  can  tell 
you ;   for  now  I  cannot  be  said  to  betray  her. 

Mons.     That's    all    one,   so   wee   reach    our 
objects  :   forth,  I  beseech  thee. 

Per.  To  tell  you  truth,  my  lord,  I  have  made  200 
a  strange  discovery. 

Mons.  Excellent  Pero,  thou  reviv'st  me ;  may  I 
sink  quick  to  perdition  if  my  tongue  discover  it ! 

Per.  Tis  thus,  then  :  this  last  night  my  lord 
lay  forth,  and  I,  watching  my  ladies  sitting  up,  205 
stole  up  at  midnight  from  my  pallat,  and  (having 
before  made  a  hole  both  through  the  wall  and 
arras  to  her  inmost  chamber)  I  saw  D'Ambois 
and  her  selfe  reading  a  letter ! 

192  of.    A,  concerning. 

193  sivorne  to  thee.    A,  promised. 

194  that  assurance.    A,  that  you  have  sworne. 

198-199  so  ivee  reach  our  objects.  A,  so  it  bee  not  to  one  that 
will  betray  thee. 

202  Excellent  .    .    .   me.    So  punctuated    by   ed.;  A,  Excellent 
Pero  thou  reviv'st  me  5    B,  Excellent !  Pero  thou  reviv'st  me. 

203  to  perdition.    A,  into  earth  heere. 

205    ivatching.    A,  wondring.     206   stole  up.    A,  stole. 
209  her  selfe  reading  a  letter.    A,  she  set  close  at  a  banquet. 


Scene  II.  ]  115U00^  W^XtXhOiH  73 

Mons.  D'Ambois!  "° 

Per.   Even  he,  my  lord. 

Mons.  Do'st  thou  not  dreame,  wench  ? 

Per.  I  sweare  he  is  the  man. 

Mons.   The  devill  he  is,  and  thy  lady  his  dam  ! 
Why  this  was  the  happiest  shot  that  ever  flewe  ;2i5 
the  just  plague  of  hypocrisie  level'd  it.    Oh,  the 
infinite  regions  betwixt  a  womans  tongue  and 
her  heart !   is  this  our  Goddesse  of  chastity  ?    I 
thought  I  could  not  be  so  sleighted,  if  she  had 
not  her  fraught  besides,  and  therefore  plotted  thiszao 
with  her  woman,  never  dreaming  of  D'Amboys. 
Deare  Pero,  I  will  advance  thee  for  ever :   but 
tell  me  now  —  Gods  pretious,  it  transformes  mee 
with  admiration  — sweet  Pero,  whom  should  she 
trust   with  this  conveyance?    Or,  all  the  doreszas 
being  made  sure,  how  should  his  conveyance  be 
made  ? 

Per.  Nay,  my  lord,  that  amazes  me  :    I  can- 
not by  any  study  so  much  as  guesse  at  it. 

Mons.   Well,  let's   favour  our  apprehensions  230 
with  forbearing  that  a  little ;   for,  if  my  heart 

213   I  siveare.   A,  No,  my  lord. 

7.1  c^-zid  Why  thh  .    .   .    Oh,  the.  A  omits,  possibly  by  mistake. 

220  fraught.    A,  freight. 

221  ne-ver  dreaming  of  D'  Amboyi.    A  omits. 

225  this.    A,  his. 

226  should.   A,  could. 

227  made.    A,  performed. 


74  BUfiffif^  D'^mboifi  [Act  III. 

were  not  hoopt  with  adamant,  the  conceipt  of 
this  would  have  burst  it :  but  heark  thee. 

Whispers. 

Mont.   I   pray  thee,  resolve  mee  :   the  Duke 
will  never  imagine  that  I  am  busie  about's  wife  1235 
hath  D'Ambois  any  privy  accesse  to  her  ? 

Jn.  No,  my  lord,  D'Ambois  neglects  her  (as 
shee  takes  it)  and  is  therefore  suspicious  that 
either  your  lady,  or  the  lady  Beaupre,  hath 
closely  entertain'd  him.  240 

Mont.  Ber  lady,  a  likely  suspition,  and  very 
neere  the  life  —  especially  of  my  wife. 

Mons.   Come,  we'l  disguise  all  with  seeming 
onely  to  have  courted. —  Away,  dry  palm  !  sh'as 
a  livor  as  dry  as  a  bisket ;  a  man   may  goe  a  245 
whole   voyage  with   her,  and   get    nothing   but 
tempests  from  her  windpipe. 

Gui.  Here's  one  (I  think)  has  swallowed  a 
porcupine,  shee  casts  pricks  from  her  tongue  so. 

Mont,   And  here's  a  peacock  seemes  to  have  250 
devour'd  one  of  the  Alpes,  she  has  so  swelling 
a  spirit,  &  is  so  cold  of  her  kindnes. 

Whhpen.    A  omits. 

233   Between  this  line  and  1.  234  A  inserts  :  — 

Char.   I   sweare  to  your  Grace,  all  that   I   can  conjecture  touching  my 
lady,  your  neece,  is  a  strong  affection  she  beares  to  the  English  Mylor. 
Gui.  All,  quod  you  !  tis  enough  I  assure  you;  but  tell  me. 

242  life  —  :  between  this  word  and  especially  A  inserts  :  if  she 
marks  it.      243   disguise.    A,  put  off.      247  from.    A,  at. 


Scene  II.]  )15U0fi;^  SD'^mbOltf  75 

Char.  We  are  no  windfalls,  my  lord  ;  ye  must 
gather  us  with  the  ladder  of  matrimony,  or  we'l 
hang  till  we  be  rotten.  2,55 

Mons.  Indeed,  that's  the  way  to  make  ye  right 
openarses.  But,  alas,  ye  have  no  portions  fit  for 
such  husbands  as  we  wish  you. 

Per.  Portions,  my  lord  !  yes,  and  such  portions 
as  your  principality  cannot  purchase.  260 

Mons.  What,  woman,  what  are  those  portions .'' 

Per.   Riddle  my  riddle,  my  lord. 

Mons.  I,  marry,  wench,  I  think  thy  portion 
is  a  right  riddle  ;  a  man  shall  never  finde  it  out : 
but  let's  heare  it.  265 

Per.  You  shall,  my  lord. 
What's  that.,  that  being  most  rars  ynost  cheap  ? 
That  when  you  sow.,  you  never  reap  F 
That  when  it  grow es  most.,  most  you  [/^]/«  /V, 
Jnd  still  you  lose  it.,  when  you  win  it  ?  270 

That  when  tis  commonest.,  tis  dearest^ 
And  when  tis  farthest  off.,  'tis  neerest  ? 

Mons.   Is  this  your  great  portion  ? 

Per.  Even  this,  my  lord. 

Mons.   Beleeve  me,  I  cannot  riddle  it.  275 

Per.  No,  my  lord  ;  tis  my  chastity,  which  you 
shall  neither  riddle  nor  fiddle. 

Mons.  Your  chastity  !    Let  me  begin  with  the 

253   are.    A,  be.     269  [^th'\in.    Emend,  ed  ;  Qq,  in. 
273  great.    A  omits. 


76  y5u&<s^  S[)';amboi0         [act  m. 

end  of  it ;  how  is  a  womans  chastity  neerest  a 
man,  when  tis  furthest  off?  aSo 

Per.  Why,  my  lord,  when  you  cannot  get  it, 
it  goes  to  th'  heart  on  you  ;  and  that  I  think  comes 
most  neere  you :  and  I  am  sure  it  shall  be  farre 
enough  off.   And  so  wee  leave  you  to  our  mercies. 

Exeunt  Women. 

Mons.   Farewell,  riddle.  285 

Gui.   Farewell,  medlar. 

Mont.   Farewell,  winter  plum. 

Mom.  Now,  my  lords,  what  fruit  of  our  in- 
quisition ?  feele  you  nothing  budding  yet  ?  Speak, 
good  my  lord  Montsurry.  290 

Mont.  Nothing  but  this:  D'Ambois  is  thought 
negligent  in  observing  the  Duchesse,  and  there- 
fore she  is  suspicious  that  your  neece  or  my  wife 
closely  entertaines  him. 

Mons.  Your  wife,  my  lord  !    Think  you  that  295 
possible  ? 

Mont.  Alas,  I  know  she  flies  him  like  her 
last  houre. 

Mons.   Her  last  houre  ?   Why  that  comes  upon 
her  the  more  she  flies  it.    Does  D'Ambois  80,300 
think  you  ? 

Mont.  That's  not  worth  the  answering.  Tis 
miraculous  to  think  with  what  monsters  womens 

279  it.    A,  you.        284  ivee.    A,  I.      our  mercies.    A,  my  mercy. 
303   miraculous.    A,  horrible. 


Scene  II.]  HBUgS^  SD'^JIlbOig  H 

imaginations  engrosse  them  when  they  are  once 
enamour'd,  and  what   wonders  they   will   work  305 
for  their  satisfaction.    They  will  make  a  sheepe 
valiant,  a  lion  fearefull. 

Mons.  And  an  asse  confident.  Well,  my  lord, 
more  will  come  forth  shortly ;  get  you  to  the 
banquet.  3'° 

Gut.  Come,  my  lord,  I  have  the  blind  side  of 
one  of  them.  Exit  Guise  cum  Mont  \surry\ . 

Mons.    O    the    unsounded    sea    of   womens 
bloods, 
That  when  tis  calmest,  is  most  dangerous  ! 
Not  any  wrinkle  creaming  in  their  faces,  315 

When  in  their  hearts  are  Scylla  and  Caribdis, 
Which  still  are  hid  in  dark  and  standing  foggs, 
Where  never  day  shines,  nothing  ever  growes 
But   weeds    and    poysons    that    no   states-man 

knowes ; 
Nor  Cerberus  ever  saw  the  damned  nookes         320 
Hid  with  the  veiles  of  womens  vertuous  lookes. 
But  what  a  cloud  of  sulphur  have  I  drawne 

308    Well,  my  lord.    A,  My  lord,  tis  true,  and. 
3 1 1-3 1 2    Come  .  .  .  of  them.     A  omits.      317   dark  and  stand- 
ing foggs.    A,  monster-formed  cloudes.     322-336   But  ivkat  .  .  . 
f tares.    Omitted  in  A,  which  has  instead  :  — 

1  will  conceale  all  yet,  and  give  more  time 
To  D'Ambois  triall,  now  upon  my  hooke ; 
He  awes  my  throat;  else,  like  Sybillas  cave. 
It  should  breath  oracles  ;  1  feare  him  strangely. 
And  may  resemble  his  advanced  valour 
Unto  a  spirit  rais'd  without  a  circle. 
Endangering  him  that  ignorantly  rais'd  him. 
And  for  whose  furie  he  hath  learn'd  no  limit. 


78  )J5U00^  SD'^tttbOig  [Act  III. 

Up  to  my  bosome  in  this  dangerous  secret ! 
Which  if  my  hast  with  any  spark  should  light 
Ere  D'Ambois  were  engag'd  in  some  sure  plot,  3^5 
I   were    blowne    up ;   he   would    be,    sure,   my 

death. 
Would  I  had  never  knowne  it,  for  before 
I  shall  perswade  th'importance  to  Montsurry, 
And  make  him  with  some  studied  stratagem 
Train  D'Ambois  to  his  wreak,  his  maid  may  tell 

it;  330 

Or  I  (out  of  my  fiery  thirst  to  play 
With  the  fell  tyger  up  in  darknesse  tyed. 
And   give   it    some  light)  make  it   quite   break 

loose. 
I  feare  it,  afore  heaven,  and  will  not  see 
D'Ambois  againe,  till  I  have  told  Montsurry,     335 
And  set  a  snare  with  him  to  free  my  feares. 
Whose  there  ? 

Enter  Maffe. 

Maffe.      My  lord  ? 

Mons.  Goe,  call  the  Count  Montsurry, 

And  make  the  dores  fast ;  I  will  speak  with  none 
Till  he  come  to  me. 

Maf.  Well,  my  lord.    Exiturus. 

Mons.  Or  else 

337-391  Whose  there  .  .  .  siveet  heart !  A  omits,  though 
382-5,  with  some  variations,  appear  as  326  (half-line)— 330  in  B. 
Cf.  preceding  note. 


Scene  II. ]  )15U0S?1?  D'^tttbOtS!  79 

Send  you  some  other,  and  see  all  the  dores  340 

Made  safe  your  selfe,  I  pray  ;   hast,  flie  about  it. 
Maf.   You'l  speak  with  none   but   with   the 

Count  Montsurry  ? 
Mons.   With  none  but  hee,  except  it  be  the 

Guise. 
Maf.   See,  even  by  this  there's  one  exception 
more  ; 
Your  Grace  must  be  more  firme  in  the  command,  345 
Or  else  shall  I  as  weakly  execute. 
The  Guise  shall  speak  with  you  ? 

Mons.  He  shall,  I  say. 

Maf.   And  Count  Montsurry? 
Mons.  I,  and  Count  Montsurry. 

Maf.   Your  Grace  must  pardon  me,  that  I  am 
bold 
To  urge  the  cleare  and  full  sence  of  your  plea- 
sure;  35° 
Which  when  so  ever  I  have  knowne,  I  hope 
Your  Grace  will  say  I  hit  it  to  a  haire. 
Mons.  You  have, 

Maf  I  hope  so,  or  I  would  be  glad  — 

Mons.   I  pray  thee,  get  thee  gone  ;  thou  art  so 
tedious 
In  the  strick't  forme  of  all  thy  services  355 

That  I  had  better  have  one  negligent. 
You  hit  my  pleasure  well,  when  D'Ambois  hit 

you; 
Did  you  not,  think  you  ? 


8o  llBusfSi^  2r>'^mboifif  [act  m. 

Maf.  D'Ambois  !  why,  my  lord  — 

Alons.   I   pray  thee,  talk  no  more,  but  shut 
the  dores : 
Doe  what  I  charge  thee. 

Maf.  I  will  my  lord,  and  yet  360 

I  would  be  glad  the  wrong  I  had  of  D'Ambois  — 

Mom.   Precious  !   then  it  is  a  fate  that  plagues 
me 
In  this  mans  foolery;   I  may  be  murthered. 
While  he  stands  on  protection  of  his  folly. 
Avant,  about  thy  charge  ! 

Maf.  I  goe,  my  lord.  —      365 

I  had  my  head  broke  in  his  faithful!  service  ; 
I  had  no  suit  the  more,  nor  any  thanks. 
And  yet  my  teeth  must  still  be  hit  with  D'Am- 
bois. 
D'Ambois,  my  lord,  shall  know  — 

Mons.  The  devill  and  D'Ambois  ! 

Exit  Maffe. 
How  am  I  tortur'd  with  this  trusty  foole  !  370 

Never  was  any  curious  in  his  place 
To  doe  things  justly,  but  he  was  an  asse : 
We  cannot  finde  one  trusty  that  is  witty. 
And  therefore  beare  their  disproportion. 
Grant,  thou  great  starre,  and  angell  of  my  life,  375 
A  sure  lease  of  it  but  for  some  few  dayes, 

358   D^Ambois  .  .  .  lord.   So  punctuated  by  ed.j  B  has  :  D'Am- 
bois !   why  my  lord  ? 


Scene  II.]  BUfiffif^  SD'^mbOlfl;  8 1 

That  I  may  cleare  my  bosome  of  the  snake 
I  cherisht  there,  and  I  will  then  defie 
All  check  to  it  but  Natures ;  and  her  altars 
Shall    crack   with    vessels   crown'd   with   ev'ry 

liquor  380 

Drawn  from  her  highest  and  most  bloudy  hu- 
mors. 
I  feare  him  strangely ;   his  advanced  valour 
Is  like  a  spirit  rais'd  without  a  circle, 
Endangering  him  that  ignorantly  rais'd  him. 
And  for  whose  fury  he  hath  learnt  no  limit.        385 
Enter  Maffe  hastily. 
Maf.   I    cannot   help    it ;   what  should  I  do 
more  ? 
As  I  was  gathering  a  fit  guard  to  make 
My  passage  to  the  dores,  and  the  dores  sure. 
The  man  of  bloud  is  enter'd. 

Mons.  Rage  of  death  ! 

If  I  had  told  the  secret,  and  he  knew  it,  390 

Thus  had  I  bin  endanger'd. 

Enter  D''  Ambois. 

My  sweet  heart ! 
How  now  ?  what  leap'st  thou  at  ? 

Bmsy.  O  royall  object ! 

Mons.    Thou    dream'st    awake :     object     in 

th'empty  aire  ! 
Buss.   Worthy   the   browes   of  Titan,  worth 
his  chaire. 

394  broives.    A,  head. 


82  515us;0^  W^mhoiS         [act  m. 

Mons.   Pray  thee,  what  mean'st  thou  ? 
Buss.  See  you  not  a  crowne395 

Empalethe   forehead   of  the  great   King   Mon- 
sieur ? 
Mons.   O,  fie  upon  thee  ! 
Buss.  Prince,  that  is  the  subject 

Of  all  these  your  retir'd  and  sole  discourses. 
Mons.   Wilt   thou    not    leave  that  wrongfull 

supposition  ? 
Buss.  Why  wrongfull   to  suppose  the  doubt- 
lesse  right  400 

To  the  succession  worth  the  thinking  on  ? 
Mons.   Well,   leave    these   jests !   how   I   am 
over-joyed 
With  thy   wish'd   presence,  and  how  fit   thou 

com'st. 
For,  of  mine  honour,  I  was  sending  for  thee. 
Buss.   To  what  end  ? 

Mons.  Onely  for  thy  company,  405 

Which  I  have  still   in   thought ;   but  that's  no 

payment 
On  thy  part  made  with  personall  appearance. 
Thy  absence  so  long  suffered  oftentimes 
Put  me  in  some  little  doubt  thou  do'st  not  love 

me. 
Wilt  thou  doe  one  thing  therefore  now  sincerely  ?  410 

397   Prince.    A,  Sir.  400-408    Why  ivrongfull  .   .    .   often- 

times.   A  omits.      409    Put  me  in  some  little  doubt.    A,  This  still 
hath  made  me  doubt.  410  therefore  noiu.    A,   for  me  then. 


Scene  II.]  BttSS;^  VD'^XtlhoiS  83 

Buss.   I,  any  thing  —  but  killing  of  the  King. 

Mons.  Still  in  that  discord,  and  ill  taken  note  ? 
How  most  unseasonable  thou  playest  the  cucko, 
In  this  thy  fall  of  friendship  ! 

Buss.  Then  doe  not  doubt 

That  there  is  any  act  within  my  nerves,  415 

But  killing  of  the  King,  that  is  not  yours. 

Mons.    I  will  not  then  ;   to  prove  which,  by 
my  love 
Shewne  to  thy  vertues,  and  by  all  fruits  else 
Already  sprung  from  that  still  flourishing  tree, 
With  whatsoever  may  hereafter  spring,  420 

I  charge  thee  utter  (even  with  all  the  freedome 
Both  of  thy  noble  nature  and  thy  friendship) 
The  full  and  plaine  state  of  me  in  thy  thoughts. 

Buss.   What,  utter  plainly  what   I  think  of 
you  ? 

Mons.   Plaine  as  truth.  425 

Buss.  Why  this  swims  quite  against  the  stream 
of  greatnes  : 
Great  men  would  rather  heare  their  flatteries, 
And  if  they  be  not  made  fooles,  are  not  wise. 

413-414  Hoiv   .    .    .   friendship.     A   omits. 
414-416    Tien   .    .    .   not  yours.    Omitted  in  A,  which  has  in- 
stead :   Come,  doe  not  doubt  me,  and  command  mee  all  things. 
417   to  pro-ve  luhich,  by.     A,  and  now  by  all. 

419  still  flourishing  tree.    A,  affection. 

420  With  .  .  .  spring.    A  omits. 
425   Plaine  as  truth.     A  omits. 


84  BusfSi?  W^mhoig         [act  m. 

Mons.    I  am  no  such  great  foole,  and  there- 
fore charge  thee 
Even  from  the  root  of  thy  free  heart  display  mee.  43° 
Buss.    Since    you    affect    it    in    such    serious 
termes, 
If  your  selfe  first  will  tell  me  what  you  think 
As  freely  and  as  heartily  of  me, 
rie  be  as  open  in  my  thoughts  of  you. 

Mons.  A  bargain,  of  mine  honour  !   and  make 

this,  435 

That  prove  we  in  our  full  dissection 
Never  so  foule,  live  still  the  sounder  friends. 
Buss.    What  else,  sir  ?    come,  pay  me   home, 

ile  bide  it  bravely. 
Mons.  I  will,  I  sweare.    I  think  thee,  then,  a 
man 
That  dares  as  much  as  a  wilde  horse  or  tyger,    440 
As  headstrong  and  as  bloody ;  and  to  feed 
The  ravenous  wolfe  of  thy  most  caniball  valour 
(Rather  than  not  employ  it)  thou  would'st  turne 
Hackster  to  any  whore,  slave  to  a  Jew, 
Or  English  usurer,  to  force  possessions  445 

(And  cut  mens  throats)  of  morgaged  estates  ; 
Or  thou  would'st  tire  thee  like  a  tinkers  strum- 
pet, 
And  murther  market  folks ;  quarrell  with  sheepe, 

438  pay  me  home,  ile  hide  it  hra-vely.    A,  begin,  and  speake  me 
simply.  447  itrumpet.    A,  wife. 


Scene  II.]  llBUfi(S(^  SD'^ttlbOi^  85 

And  runne  as  mad  as  Ajax  ;   serve  a  butcher ; 
Doe  any  thing  but  killing  of  the  King.  450 

That  in  thy  valour  th'art  like  other  naturalls 
That  have  strange  gifts  in  nature,  but  no  soule 
Diffus'd  quite  through,  to  make  them  of  a  peece, 
But  stop  at  humours,  that  are  more  absurd. 
Childish  and  villanous  than  that  hackster,  whore, 455 
Slave,   cut-throat,   tinkers   bitch,   compar'd    be- 
fore ; 
And  in  those  humours  would'st  envie,  betray. 
Slander,  blaspheme,  change  each  houre  a  religion, 
Doe  any  thing,  but  killing  of  the  King  : 
That  in  thy  valour  (which  is  still  the  dunghill,  460 
To  which  hath  reference  all  filth  in  thy  house) 
Th'art  more  ridiculous  and  vaine-glorious 
Than  any  mountibank,  and  impudent 
Than  any  painted  bawd  ;   which  not  to  sooth, 
And  glorifie  thee  like  a  Jupiter  Hammon,  465 

Thou  eat'st  thy  heart  in  vinegar,  and  thy  gall 
Turns  all  thy  blood  to  poyson,  which  is  cause 
Of  that  toad-poole  that  stands  in  thy  complexion, 
And  makes  thee  with  a  cold  and  earthy  moist- 
ure, 
(Which  is  the  damme  of  putrifaction)  470 

As   plague    to   thy   damn'd    pride,  rot   as  thou 
liv'st : 

460  thy.    A,  that.      the.    A,  my. 

461  hath  reference.    A,  I  carrie. 


86  y5n&&^  SD'3lmboi0  [Act  hi. 

To  study  calumnies  and  treacheries ; 

To  thy  friends  slaughters  like  a  scrich-owle  sing, 

And  to  all  mischiefes  —  but  to  kill  the  King. 

Buss.  So  !   have  you  said  ? 

Mons.        How  thinkest  thou?   Doe  I  flatter? 4.75 
Speak  I  not  like  a  trusty  friend  to  thee  ? 

Buss.   That  ever  any  man  was  blest  withall. 
So  here's  for  me !   I  think  you  are  (at  worst") 
No  devill,  since  y'are  like  to  be  no  King; 
Of  which  with  any  friend  of  yours  He  lay  480 

This  poore  stillado  here  gainst  all  the  starres, 
I,   and   'gainst   all   your  treacheries,  which  are 

more  : 
That  you  did  never  good,  but  to  doe  ill, 
But  ill  of  all  sorts,  free  and  for  it  selfe : 
That  (like  a  murthering  peece  making  lanes  in 

armies,  485 

The  first  man  of  a  rank,  the  whole  rank  falling) 
If  you  have  wrong'd  one  man,  you  are  so  farre 
From  making  him  amends  that  all  his  race, 
Friends,  and  associates  fall  into  your  chace  : 
That  y'are  for  perjuries  the  very  prince  490 

Of  all  intelligencers  ;  and  your  voice 
Is  like  an  easterne  winde,  that,  where  it  flies, 
Knits  nets  of  catterpillars,  with  which  you  catch 
The  prime  of  all  the  fruits  the  kingdome  yeelds: 
That  your  politicall  head  is  the  curst  fount  495 

Of  all  the  violence,  rapine,  cruelty. 


Scene  II. ]  llBUSffif^  D'^tlllboig  87 

Tyrannic,    &     atheisme    flowing    through    the 

realme  : 
That  y'ave  a  tongue  so  scandalous,  'twill  cut 
The  purest  christall,  and  a  breath  that  will 
Kill  to  that  wall  a  spider ;  you  will  jest  500 

With  God,  and  your  soule  to  the  Devill  tender 
For  lust ;  kisse  horror,  and  with  death  engender  : 
That  your  foule  body  is  a  Lernean  fenne 
Of  all  the  maladies  breeding  in  all  men  : 
That  you  are  utterly  without  a  soule ;  505 

And  for  your  life,  the  thred  of  that  was  spunne 
When  Clotho  slept,  and  let  her  breathing  rock 
Fall  in  the  durt ;  and  Lachesis  still  drawes  it. 
Dipping  her  twisting  fingers  in  a  boule 
Defil'd,  and  crown'd  with  vertues  forced  soule  1510 
And  lastly  (which  I  must  for  gratitude 
Ever  remember)  that  of  all  my  height 
And  dearest  life  you  are  the  onely  spring, 
Onely  in  royall  hope  to  kill  the  King. 

Mons.  Why,  now  I  see  thou  lov'st  me  !  come 

to  the  banquet !  Exeu?it.  5^5 

499    The  purest.   A,  A  perfect. 


Finis  Actus  Tertii. 


Actus  Quarti  Scena   Prima. 
\_Tbe  Banquettifig-Hall  in  the  Court. '\ 

Henry,    Monsieur  with  a   letter.    Guise,    Montsurry, 

Bussy,    Elynor,    Tamyra,    Beaupre,    Pero,    Charlotte, 

Anable,  Pyrha,  with  four  e  Pages. 

Henry.   Ladies,  ye  have  not  done  our  banquet 

right, 
Nor  lookt  upon  it  with  those  cheereful  rayes 
That    lately  turn'd   your   breaths    to    flouds    of 

gold ; 
Your  looks,  me  thinks,  are  not  drawne  out  with 

thoughts 
So  cleare  and  free  as  heretofore,  but  foule 
As  if  the  thick  complexions  of  men 
Govern'd  within  them. 

Bussy.  'Tis  not  like,  my  lord. 

That  men  in  women  rule,  but  contrary ; 
For  as  the  moone,  of  all  things  God  created 
Not  only  is  the  most  appropriate  image 
Or  glasse  to  shew  them  how  they  wax  and  wane. 
But  in  her  height  and  motion  likewise  beares 
Imperiall  influences  that  command 
In  all  their  powers,  and  make  them  wax  and 

wane  : 

ith  a  letter.    A  omits.  5  foule.    A,  fare. 


•wit 


Scene  I]  HBUfiffif^  SD'^mbOlg  89 

So  women,  that,  of  all  things  made  of  nothing,    15 

Are  the  most  perfect  idols  of  the  moone. 

Or  still-unwean'd  sweet  moon-calves  with  white 

faces. 
Not  only  are  paterns  of  change  to  men. 
But,  as  the  tender  moon-shine  of  their  beauties 
Cleares  or  is  cloudy,  make  men  glad  or  sad.  20 

So  then  they  rule  in  men,  not  men  in  them. 
Monsieur.   But  here   the   moons  are  chang'd 

(as  the  King  notes) 
And  either  men  rule  in  them,  or  some  power 
Beyond  their  voluntary  faculty, 
For  nothing  can  recover  their  lost  faces.  ^S 

Montsurry.   None  can  be  alwayes  one  :   our 

griefes  and  joyes 
Hold  severall  scepters  in  us,  and  have  times 
For  their  divided  empires  :   which  griefe  now  in 

them 
Doth  prove  as  proper  to  his  diadem. 

Buss.   And  griefe's  a  naturall  sicknesse  of  the 

bloud,  30 

That  time  to  part  asks,  as  his  comming  had  ; 
Onely  sleight  fooles  griev'd  suddenly  are  glad. 
A  man  may  say  t'a  dead  man,  "  be  reviv'd," 
As  well  as  to  one  sorrowfull,  "  be  not  griev'd." 

16  idols.    A,  images.         21    &  then   .    .    .   in  them.    A  omits. 

24  faculty.    A,  motions. 

26-29  1^0"^  ■  •  ■  diadem.    A  assigns  these  lines  to  Bussy. 

28    di-vided  empires.    A,  predominance.      29  pro-ve.    A,  claime. 


90  11BU00^  2D'^mboi0  [act  iv. 

And  therefore  (princely  mistresse)  in  all  warres    35 
Against  these  base  foes  that  insult  on  weaknesse, 
And  still  fight  hous'd  behind  the  shield  of  Na- 
ture, 
Of  priviledge  law,  treachery,  or  beastly  need, 
Your  servant  cannot  help ;  authority  here 
Goes    with    corruption,    something    like    some 

states  40 

That  back  woorst   men  ;   valour  to  them  must 

creepe 
That  to  themselves  left  would  feare  him  asleepe. 
Duchess.  Ye  all  take  that  for  granted  that  doth 

rest 
Yet  to  be  prov'd  ;   we  all  are  as  we  were. 
As  merry  and  as  free  in  thought  as  ever.  45 

Guise.    And    why   then    can   ye   not    disclose 

your  thoughts  ? 
Tamyra.   Me  thinks  the  man  hath   answer'd 

for  us  well. 
^Mons.  The  man  !  why,  madam,  d'ee  not  know 

his  name  ? 
Tarn.   Man  is  a  name  of  honour  for  a  King  : 
Additions  take  away  from  each  chiefe  thing.         5° 
The  schoole  of  modesty  not  to  learne  learnes 

dames  : 
They  sit  in  high  formes  there  that  know  mens 

names. 

38  pri-viledge.    A,  tyrannous. 


Scene  I]  llBUSffi^  SP'^mbOlg  9^ 

Mons.    \to  Bussy.'^  Heark,  sweet  heart,  here's 
a  bar  set  to  your  valour  ! 
It  cannot  enter  here,  no,  not  to  notice 
Of  what  your  name  is  ;  your  great  eagles  beak     55 
(Should  you  flie  at  her)  had  as  good  encounter 
An  Albion  clifFe  as  her  more  craggy  liver. 

Buss.   He  not  attempt  her,  sir ;   her  sight  and 
name 
(By  which  I  onely  know  her)  doth  deter  me. 
Henr.   So  doe  they  all  men  else. 
Mons.  You  would  say  so,  60 

If  you  knew  all. 

Tarn.      Knew  all,  my  lord  ?  what  meane  you  ? 
Mons.   All  that  I  know,  madam. 
Tarn.  That  you  know  !   Speak  it. 

Mons.   No,  tis  enough  I  feele  it. 
Henr.  But  me  thinks 

Her  courtship  is  more  pure  then  heretofore. 
True  courtiers  should  be  modest,  and  not  nice ;  65 
Bold,   but   not    impudent ;    pleasure    love,   not 
vice. 
Mons.   Sweet  heart,  come  hither  !  what  if  one 
should  make 
Horns  at  Mountsurry,  would  it  not  strike  him 

jealous 
Through  all  the  proofes  of  his  chaste  ladies  ver- 
tues  ? 

65   and.    A,  but. 


92  BU00^  SD'^mboiS  [Act  IV. 

Buss.   If  he  be  wise,  not.  70 

Mons.    What,  not  if  I   should  name  the  gar- 
dener 
That  I  would  have  him  think  hath  grafted  him  ? 
Buss.     So  the  large  licence   that  your  great- 
nesse  uses 
To  jest  at  all  men  may  be  taught  indeed 
To  make  a  difference  of  the  grounds  you  play 

on,  75 

Both  in  the  men  you  scandall  and  the  matter. 
Mons.   As  how,  as  how  ? 

Buss.  Perhaps  led  with  a  traine 

Where  you  may  have  your  nose  made  lesse  and 

slit. 
Your  eyes  thrust  out. 

Mons.  Peace,  peace,  I  pray  thee,  peace  ! 

Who  dares  doe  that  ?   the  brother  of  his  King  !     80 
Buss.    Were  your  King  brother  in  you ;  all 
your  powers 
(Stretcht  in  the  armes  of  great   men  and  their 

bawds) 
Set  close  downe  by  you  ;   all  your  stormy  lawes 

70-78   If  he  .  .  .  and  slit.    Omitted  in  A,  which  has  instead  :  — 

Buss.  No,  1  thinke  not. 

Mons,  Not  if  I  nam'd  the  man 

With  whom  I  would  make  him  suspicious 
His  wife  hath  arm'd  his  forehead  f 

Buss.  So  you  might 

Have  your  great  nose  made  lesse  indeede,  and  slit. 

77—79  In  B  four    lines,   broken  at  (second)    ho'w,  ka-ve,   out, 
thee  peace. 


Scene  I]  BUfiflf^  2E>'^mbOifif  93 

Spouted    with    lawyers    mouthes,   and    gushing 

bloud, 
Like  to  so  many  torrents  ;   all  your  glories  85 

Making  you  terrible,  like  enchanted  flames, 
Fed  with    bare   cockscombs  and  with  crooked 

hammes, 
All   your   prerogatives,   your  shames,  and   tor- 
tures. 
All  daring  heaven  and  opening  hell  about  you  — 
Were  I  the  man  ye  wrong'd  so  and  provok'd,      9° 
(Though  ne're  so  much  beneath  you)  like  a  box 

tree 
I  would  out  of  the  roughnesse  of  my  root 
Ramme   hardnesse   in   my   lownesse,   and,   like 

death 
Mounted  on  earthquakes,  I  would  trot  through 

all 
Honors  and  horrors,  thorow  foule  and  faire,         95 
And   from  your  whole  strength  tosse  you  into 
the  aire. 
Mons.    Goe,  th'art    a    devill !    such    another 
spirit 
Could  not  be  still'd  from  all  th' Armenian  dra- 
gons. 
O,  my  loves  glory  !   heire  to  all  I  have 
(That's  all  I  can  say,  and  that  all  I  sweare)         100 
If  thou  out-live  me,  as  I  know  thou  must, 

92  roughnesse.    A,  toughnesse.  96   the.    A  omits. 


94  llBu00^  2l>'^mboi0         [act  iv. 

Or  else  hath  Nature  no  proportion'd  end 

To  her  great  labours;  she  hath  breath'd  a  minde 

Into  thy  entrails,  of  desert  to  swell 

Into  another  great  Augustus  Caesar  ;  105 

Organs  and  faculties  fitted  to  her  greatnesse ; 

And  should  that  perish  like  a  common  spirit, 

Nature's  a  courtier  and  regards  no  merit. 

Henr.   Here's  nought  but  whispering  with  us ; 
like  a  calme 
Before  a  tempest,  when  the  silent  ayre  "o 

Layes  her  soft  eare  close  to  the  earth  to  hearken 
For  that  she  feares  steales  on  to  ravish  her ; 
Some  fate  dothjoyneourearestoheareit  comming. 
Come,  my  brave  eagle,  let's  to  covert  flie  ! 
I  see  almighty  vEther  in  the  smoak  115 

Of  all  his  clowds  descending,  and  the  skie 
Hid  in  the  dim  ostents  of  tragedy. 

Exit  He7ir\_y^  with  D'  Amb^ois^  ^  Ladies. 

Guis.  Now  stirre  the  humour,  and  begin  the 
brawle. 

Mont.  The    King   and   D'Ambois    now   are 
growne  all  one. 

Mons.   Nay,  they  are  two,  my  lord. 

Mont.  How's  that  ? 

Mons.  No  more,  i^o 

Mont.   I  must  have  more,  my  lord. 

103   minde.     A,  spirit.  104  desert.     A,  effect. 

112   steales  on  to  ra-vish.     A,  is  comming  to  afflict. 


Scene  I.]  115U6I0^  SD'^mboifif  95 

Mons.  What,  more  than  two  ? 

Mont.    How  monstrous  is  this  ! 
Mons.  Why  ? 

Mont.  You  make  me  horns. 

Mons.   Not  I,  it  is  a  work  without  my  power, 
Married  mens  ensignes  are  not  made  with  fingers; 
Of  divine  fabrique  they  are,  not  mens  hands:     125 
Your  wife,  you  know,  is  a  meere  Cynthia, 
And  she  must  fashion  homes  out  of  her  nature. 
Mont.   But  doth  she  ?   dare  you  charge  her  ? 

speak,  false  prince. 
Mons.   I  must  not  speak,  my  lord  ;   but  if  you'l 
use 
The  learning  of  a  noble  man,  and  read,  130 

Here's  something  to  those  points.   Soft,  you  must 

pawne 
Your  honour,  having  read  it,  to  return  it. 
Enter  Tamira,  Pero. 
Mont.  Not  I  :  —  I  pawne  mine  honour  for  a 

paper ! 
Mons.  You  must  not  buy  it  under. 

Exeunt  Guise  and  Monsieur. 
Mont.  Keepe  it  then, 

And  keepe  fire  in  your  bosome  ! 

Tarn.  What  sayes  he  ?i35 

Mont.   You  must  make  good  the  rest. 

Enter  .    .    .    Pero,  placed  in  A  after  under  in  134. 
Exeunt  .    .    .    Monsieur.    A  omits. 


96  315u00^  w^mhoia        [act  iv. 

Tarn.  How  fares  my  lord  ? 

Takes  my  love  any  thing  to  heart  he  sayes  ? 

Mont.   Come,  y'are  a  — 

Tarn.  What,  my  lord  ? 

Mont.  The  plague  of  Herod 

Feast  in  his  rotten  entrailes  ! 

Tarn.  Will  you  wreak 

Your  angers  just  cause  given  by  him  on  me  ?      140 

Mont.   By  him  ? 

Tarn.  By  him,  my  lord.  I  have  admir'd 

You  could  all  this  time  be  at  concord  with  him, 
That  still  hath  plaid  such  discords  on  your  honour. 

Mont.   Perhaps  tis  with  some  proud  string  of 
my  wives. 

Tarn.   How's  that,  my  lord  ? 

Mont.  Your  tongue  will  still  admire,  145 

Till  my  head  be  the  miracle  of  the  world. 

Tarn.   O  woe  is  me  !  She  seemes  to  sound. 

Pero.  What  does  your  lordship  meane  .? 

Madam,  be  comforted  ;   my  lord  but  tries  you. 
Madam !    Help,  good  my  lord,  are  you  not  mov'd  ? 
Doe  your  set  looks  print  in  your  words  your 

thoughts  ?  150 

Sweet  lord,  cleare  up  those  eyes, 

She  seemes  to  sound.    A  omits. 

151— 154  Siveet  .   .    .   enough,    A  has  instead  :  — 

Sweete  lord,  cleare  up  those  eies,  for  shame  of  noblesse  : 
Mercilesse  creature  ;  but  it  is  enough. 

B  has  three  lines  broken  31  forehead,  ivarres,  enough. 


Scene  I]  BUfiI0^  D'^tttbOlg  97 

Unbend  that  masking  forehead.    Whence  is  it 
You  rush  upon  her  with  these  Irish  warres, 
More  full  of  sound  then  hurt  ?    But  it  is  enough  ; 
You  have  shot  home,-  your  words  are  in  her 

heart  ;  iS5 

She  has  not  h'v'd  to  beare  a  triall  now. 

Mont.  Look  up,  my  love,  and  by  this  kisse 
receive 
My  soule  amongst  thy  spirits,  for  supply 
To  thine  chac'd  with  my  fury. 

Tarn.  O,  my  lord, 

I  have  too  long  liv'd  to  heare  this  from  you.       i6o 

Mont.   'Twas   from  my  troubled  bloud,  and 
not  from  me. 
I  know  not  how  I  fare ;  a  sudden  night 
Flowes  through  my  entrailes,  and  a  headlong 

chaos 
Murmurs  within  me,  which  I  must  digest. 
And  not  drowne  her  in  my  confusions,  165 

That  was  my  lives  joy,  being  best  inform'd. 
Sweet,  you  must  needs  forgive  me,  that  my  love 
(Like  to  a  fire  disdaining  his  suppression) 
Rag'd  being  discouraged ;    my  whole  heart    is 

wounded 
When  any  least  thought  in  you  is  but  touch't,    170 
And  shall  be  till  I  know  your  former  merits, 
Your  name  and  memory,  altogether  crave 
In  just  oblivion  their  eternall  grave  ; 


98  )l5ug;6;^  SD'amboifi;        [act  iv. 

And  then,  you  must  heare  from  me,  there's  no 

meane 
In  any  passion  I  shall  feele  for  you.  175 

Love  is  a  rasor,  cleansing,  being  well  us'd. 
But  fetcheth  blood  still,  being  the  least  abus'd. 
To  tell  you  briefly  all  —  the  man  that  left  me 
When  you  appear'd,  did  turne  me  worse  than 

woman. 
And  stab'd    me    to    the    heart,   thus,   with    his 

fingers.  180 

Tarn.   O    happy  woman  !    comes    my    stain 

from  him, 
It  is  my  beauty,  and  that  innocence  proves 
That  slew  Chymaera,  rescued  Peleus 
From  all  the  savage  beasts  in  Peleon, 
And    rais'd  the    chaste  Athenian    prince   from 

hell :  185 

All  suffering  with  me,  they  for  womens  lusts, 
I  for  a  mans,  that  the  Egean  stable 
Of  his  foule  sinne  would  empty  in  my  lap. 
How  his  guilt  shunn'd  me  !   Sacred  innocence 
That,  where  thou   fear'st,  are  dreadfull,  and  his 

face  190 

Turn'd  in    flight   from  thee    that    had  thee  in 

chace  ! 
Come,  bring  me  to  him.    I  will  tell  the  serpent 

l2o  Jingers.    A,  hand.  i8l   comes  .    .    .    him.    Punctuated 

by  ed. ;   Qq,  comes  my  stain  from  him  ? 


Scene  I.]  JBUSffif^  D'^tttbOtfif  99 

Even  to  his  venom'd  teeth  (from  whose  curst 

seed 
A  pitcht  field  starts  up  'twixt  my  lord  and  me) 
That    his    throat   lies,  and    he  shall  curse  his 

fingers  195 

For  being  so  govern'd  by  his  filthy  soule. 

Mont.   I    know   not    if  himselfe    will    vaunt 

t'have  beene 
The  princely  author  of  the  slavish  sinne, 
Or  any  other  ;   he  would  have  resolv'd  me, 
Had  you  not  come,  not  by  his  word,  but  writing, 200 
Would  I  have  sworne  to  give  it  him  againe. 
And  pawn'd  mine  honour  to  him  for  a  paper. 
Tarn.   See,  how  he  flies  me   still !   tis  a  foule 

heart 
That  feares  his  owne  hand.    Good  my  lord,  make 

haste 
To  see  the  dangerous  paper  :   papers  hold  205 

Oft-times  the  formes  and  copies  of  our  soules. 
And  (though  the  world  despise  them)  are  the 

prizes 
Of  all  our  honors  ;   make  your  honour  then 
A  hostage  for  it,  and  with  it  conferre 

193    E-ven   .    .    .   cunt  seed.    A,  Even  to  his  teeth,  whence,  in 
mine  honors  soile. 

205-209  papers  hold  ,   .   .  for  it.    Omitted  in  A,  which  has 
instead  :  — 

Be  not  nice 
For  any  trifle,  jeweld  with  your  honour. 
To  pawne  your  honor. 


100  Wu&si^  a>'0mboi0         [act  iv. 

My  neerest  woman  here  in  all  she  knowes  ;        210 
Who  (if   the    sunne    or  Cerberus  could   have 

seene 
Any  staine  in  me)  might  as  well  as  they. 
And,  Pero,  here  I  charge  thee,  by  my  love. 
And  all  proofes  of  it  (which  I  might  call  boun- 
ties) ; 
By  all  that  thou  hast  seene  seeme  good  in  mee,  215 
And  all  the  ill  which  thou  shouldst  spit  from 

thee  ; 
By  pity  of   the  wound  this  touch  hath   given 

me. 
Not  as  thy  mistresse  now,  but  a  poore  woman 
To  death  given  over,  rid  me  of  my  paines ; 
Powre  on  thy  powder;   cleare  thy  breast  of  me. 220 
My  lord  is  only  here  :   here  speak  thy  worst ; 
Thy  best  will  doe  me  mischiefe  ;  if  thou  spar'st 

me. 
Never  shine  good  thought  on  thy  memory  ! 
Resolve  my  lord,  and  leave  me  desperate. 

Per.      My    lord !  —  my    lord     hath    plaid   a 

prodigals  part,  225 

To  break  his  stock  for  nothing,  and  an  insolent, 
To  cut  a  Gordian  when  he  could  not  loose  it. 
What  violence  is  this,  to  put  true  fire 
To  a   false  train ;    to   blow  up   long   crown'd 

peace 

212  ivelL    A,  much.  217  lAis  touch.    A,  my  lord. 


Scene  II.]  lBUg0^  2D'^mboi0  lOI 

With  sudden  outrage ;  and  beleeve  a  man,  230 

Sworne  to  the  shame  of  women,  'gainst  a  woman 
Borne  to  their  honours  ?    But  I  will  to  him. 

Tarn.   No,  I  will  write  (for  I  shall  never  more 
Meet  with  the  fugitive)  where  I  will  defie  him, 
Were  he  ten  times  the  brother  of  my  King.        235 
To  him,  my  lord,  —  and  ile  to  cursing  him. 

Exeunt. 

[Actus  Quarti  Scena  Secunda. 
A  Room  in  Montsurrf  s  House.'\ 
Enter  D''  Ambois  and  Frier. 

Bussy.   I    am   suspitious,  my    most    honour'd 

father. 
By  some  of  Monsieurs  cunning  passages. 
That   his   still    ranging  and   contentious    nose- 

thrils 
To  scent  the  haunts  of  mischiefe  have  so  us'd 
The  vicious  vertue  of  his  busie  sence  5 

That  he  trails   hotly  of  him,  and    will   rowze 

him. 
Driving  him  all  enrag'd  and  foming  on  us ; 
And  therefore  have  entreated  your  deepe  skill 
In  the  command  of  good  aeriall  spirits, 

432  But  I  ivill  to  him.      A,  lie  attend  your  lordship. 

234  Meet.    A,  Speake.  236    To  him   .    .    .   him.    A  omits. 

Enter  D^  Ambois  and  Frier  and  1-ig  lam  .  .  .  despaire.    A  omits. 


102  Busfsf^  D'^mboifif         [act  iv. 

To  assume  these  magick  rites,  and  call  up  one,  lo 
To  know  if  any  have  reveal'd  unto  him 
Any  thing  touching  my  deare  love  and  me. 

Friar.   Good  sonne,  you  have  amaz'd  me  but    • 
to  make 
The  least  doubt  of  it,  it  concernes  so  neerely 
The  faith  and  reverence  of  my  name  and  order.   15 
Yet  will  I  justifie  upon  my  soule 
All  I  have  done  ; 
If  any  spirit  i'th  [e]  earth  or  aire 
Can  give  you  the  resolve,  doe  not  despaire. 

Musick  :  and  Tamira  enters  with  Pero,  her  maid, 
bearing  a  letter, 
Tamyra.   Away,  deliver  it.  Exit  Pero. 

O  may  my  lines,  20 
Fill'd  with  the  poyson  of  a  womans  hate. 
When  he  shall  open  them,  shrink  up  his  curst 

eyes 
With  torturous  darknesse,  such  as  stands  in  hell, 
Stuck  full  of  inward  horrors,  never  lighted ; 
With  which  are  all  things  to  be  fear'd,  affrighted.  25 
Buss.   How  is  it  with  my  honour'd  mistresse  ? 
Tarn.   O,  servant,  help,  and  save  me  from  the 
gripes 

18  th\/\.    Emend,  ed.;   B,  th. 

Tamira  enters.  A,  she  enters.  Pero,  her  maid.  Emend.  Dilke; 
A,  her  maid  ;    B,  Pero  and  her  maid.  22   curst.    A  omits. 

25  After  this  line  A  has  Father,  followed  by  stage  direction  : 
Ascendit  Bussy  ivith  Comolet. 


Scene  II.]  Wn&&^  "SD'^mhoiH  IO3 

Of  shame  and  infamy.    Our  love  is  knowne  ; 

Your  Monsieur  hath  a  paper  where  is  writ 

Some  secret  tokens  that  decipher  it.  30 

Buss.   What  cold  dull  Northern  brain,  what 
foole  but  he. 
Durst  take  into  his  Epimethean  breast 
A  box  of  such  plagues  as  the  danger  yeelds 
Incur'd  in  this  discovery  ?    He  had  better 
Ventur'd  his  breast  in  the  consuming  reach  35 

Of  the  hot  surfets  cast  out  of  the  clouds. 
Or  stood  the  bullets  that  (to  wreak  the  skie) 
The  Cyclops  ramme  in  Joves  artillerie. 

Fri.   We  soone  will  take  the  darknesse  from 
his  face 
That  did  that  deed  of  darknesse  ;  we  will  know  40 
What   now   the    Monsieur   and   your   husband 

doe ; 
What  is  contain'd  within  the  secret  paper 
Offer'd  by  Monsieur,  and  your  loves  events. 
To   which   ends   (honour'd   daughter)    at    your 

motion 
I  have  put  on  these  exorcising  rites,  45 

And,  by  my  power  of  learned  holinesse 
Vouchsaft  me  from  above,  I  will  command 
Our  resolution  of  a  raised  spirit. 

28-31    Our  love   is  knoivne ;   .    .    .   but  he.      Omitted   in   A, 
which  has  instead  :  — 

Buss.         What  insensate  stocke. 
Or  rude  inanimate  vapour  without  fashion. 


104  3l5u0s;^  E)'^mboi0        [act  iv. 

Tam,   Good   father,  raise  him  in  some  beau- 
teous forme, 
That  with  least  terror  I  may  brook  his  sight.         50 
Fri.   Stand  sure  together,  then,  what  ere  you 
see. 
And  stir  not,  as  ye  tender  all  our  lives. 

He  puts  071  his  robes. 

Occidentalium  legionum  spiritualium  imperator 
{magnus  ille  Behemoth')  veni^  verity  comitatus  cum 
Asaroth  locotenente  invicto.  Adjure  te^  per  Stygis  55 
inscrutabilia  arcana^  per  ipsos  irremeahiles  anfrac- 
tus  Averni :  adesto  0  Behemoth^  tu  cut  pervia  sunt 
Magnatum  scrin'ia  ;  veni^ per  Noctis  &"  tenebrarum 
ahdita  profundissima  ;  per  labentia  sydera  ;  per  ipsos 
motus  horarum  furtivos^  Hecatesq^ue^  altum  s'tlen-  60 
tium  !  Appare  in  forma  spiritali^  lucente^  splendida^ 
y  am  a  bin  ! 

Thunder,    Ascendit  \_Behemoth  with  Cartophylax  and 
other  spirits^ . 

Behemoth.   What  would  the  holy  frier  ? 

Fri.  I  would  see 

What  now  the  Monsieur  and  Mountsurrie  doe. 
And  see  the  secret  paper  that  the  Monsieur  65 

OfFer'd  to  Count  Montsurry  ;  longing  much 
To  know  on  what  events  the  secret  loves 
Of  these  two  honour'd  persons  shall  arrive. 

He  puts  on  his  robes.    A  omits.  Thunder.    A  omits. 


Scene  II]  HBU^  SD'^tttbOtfif  ^°5 

Beh.   Why  calledst  thou  me  to  this  accursed 

light, 
To  these  light  purposes  ?   I  am  Emperor  7° 

Of  that  inscrutable  darknesse,  where  are  hid 
All  deepest  truths,  and  secrets  never  seene. 
All  which  I  know ;  and  command  legions 
Of   knowing  spirits   that    can    doe    more  then 

these. 
Any  of  this  my  guard  that  circle  me  75 

In  these  blew  fires,  and  out  of  whose  dim  fumes 
Vast   murmurs   use  to   break,  and    from   their 

sounds 
Articulat  voyces,  can  doe  ten  parts  more 
Than  open  such  sleight  truths  as  you  require. 
Fri.   From  the  last  nights  black  depth  I  call'd 

up  one  80 

Of  the  inferiour  ablest  ministers. 
And  he  could  not  resolve  mee.    Send  one,  then. 
Out  of  thine  owne  command  to  fetch  the  paper 
That  Monsieur  hath  to  shew  to  Count  Mont- 

surry. 
Beh.   I  will.    Cartophylax  !   thou  that  properly  85 
Hast  in  thy  power  all  papers  so  inscrib'd. 
Glide  through  all  barres  to  it,  and   fetch   that 

paper. 
Cartophylax.   I  will.  A  torch  removes. 

78  Articulat.    In  some  copies  of  B  this  is  printed  :   Articular. 
80   one.    A  ;    B,  on. 


io6  )15u00^  SD'^mboig         [activ. 

Fri.  Till  he  returnes  (great  prince  of  dark- 
nesse) 
Tell  me  if  Monsieur  and  the  Count  Montsurry  90 
Are  yet  encounter'd. 

Beh.  Both  them  and  the  Guise 

Are  now  together. 

Fri.  Show  us  all  their  persons, 

And  represent  the  place,  with  all  their  actions. 

Beh.   The  spirit  will  strait  return,  and  then 
He  shew  thee. 
See,  he  is  come.    Why  brought'st  thou  not  the 

paper  ?  95 

Car.   He  hath  prevented  me,  and  got  a  spirit 
Rais'd  by  another,  great  in  our  command, 
To  take  the  guard  of  it  before  I  came. 

Beh.    This  is  your  slacknesse,  not   t'invoke 
our  powers 
When  first  your  acts  set  forth  to  their  effects.     100 
Yet  shall  you  see  it  and  themselves.    Behold 
They  come  here,  &  the  Earle  now  holds  the  paper. 

Ent[er']    Mons[ieur'],  Gui[se'\,  Mont\jurry\,  with 
a  paper. 

Buss.   May  we  not  heare  them  ? 

^Fri.'\  No,  be  still  and  see. 

Buss.   I  will  goe  fetch  the  paper. 

Fri.  Doe  not  stirre. 

There's  too  much  distance,  and  too  many  locks  105 

103    [Fr/.]    Emend,  ed.  ;   Qq,  Monsieur. 


Scene  II.]  IIBUSS^  D'^mbOlfi!  IO7 

Twixt  you  and  them  (how  neere  so  e're  they 

seeme) 
For  any  man  to  interrupt  their  secrets. 

Tarn.   O  honour'd  spirit,  flie  into  the  fancie 
Of  my  offended  lord  ;   and  doe  not  let  him 
Beleeve  what  there  the  wicked  man  hath  writ- 
ten. 
Beh.   Perswasion  hath  already  enter'd  him 
Beyond  reflection  ;   peace,  till  their  departure  ! 


Monsieur.   There  is  a  glasse  of  ink  where  you 

may  see 
How  to  make  ready  black  fac'd  tragedy  : 
You    now   discerne,   I    hope,    through    all    her 

paintings,  115 

Her  gasping  wrinkles  and  fames  sepulchres. 
Guise.  Think  you  he  faines,  my  lord  ?   what 

hold  you  now  ? 
Doe  we  maligne  your  wife,  or  honour  you  ? 
Mons.  What,  stricken   dumb  !   Nay  fie,  lord, 

be  not  danted  : 
Your  case  is  common  ;   were  it  ne're  so  rare,      120 
Beare  it  as  rarely  !   Now  to  laugh  were  manly. 
A  worthy  man  should  imitate  the  weather. 
That   sings   in   tempests,    and    being    cleare,   is 

silent. 

113   iv here  you  may.    A,  wherein  you. 


io8  llBusfsf^  SD'^mbois         [act  iv. 

Gui.   Goe  home,  my  lord,  and  force  your  wife 
to  write 
Such  loving  lines  to  D'Ambois  as  she  us'd  125 

When  she  desir'd  his  presence. 

Mom.  Doe,  my  lord. 

And  make  her  name  her  conceal'd  messenger. 
That  close  and  most  inennerable  pander, 
That  passeth  all  our  studies  to  exquire : 
By  whom  convay  the  letter  to  her  love;  130 

And  so  you  shall  be  sure  to  have  him  come 
Within  the  thirsty  reach  of  your  revenge. 
Before  which,  lodge  an  ambush  in  her  chamber, 
Behind  the  arras,  of  your  stoutest  men 
All  close  and  soundly  arm'd ;  and  let  them  share  135 
A  spirit  amongst  them  that  would  serve  a  thou- 
sand. 

Enter  Pero  with  a  letter. 

Gui.   Yet,  stay  a  little  :   see,  she  sends  for  you. 

Mom.   Poore,   loving    lady,   she'le    make   all 
good  yet ; 
Think  you  not  so,  my  lord  ? 

Mont  \surrj\  stabs  Pero,  and  exit. 

Gui.  Alas,  poore  soule  ! 

Mom.  This  was  cruelly  done,  y'faith. 

Pero.  T'was  nobly  done  ;  140 

And  I  forgive  his  lordship  from  my  soule. 

Enter   .    .    .    letter.  A  omits. 

Mont  [surryl    .    .    .    exit.    Emend,  ed.  ;  A,  Exit  Mont.,  which 
it  places  after  J ya;V/4  in  1.   140  ;    B,  Exit  Mont,  and  stabi  Pero. 


Scene  II.]  lBUfif0^  SD'^IttbOlg  IO9 

Mons.   Then   much  good   doo't   thee,   Pero ! 

hast  a  letter  ? 
Per.   I  hope  it  rather  be  a  bitter  volume 
Of  worthy  curses  for  your  perjury. 
Gui.  To  you,  my  lord. 

Mons.  To  me  ?   Now  out  upon  her  !  145 

Gui.   Let  me  see,  my  lord. 
Mons.  You    shall    presently :   how   fares    my 
Pero  ?  Enter  Servant. 

Who's  there  ?    Take  in  this  maid,  sh'as  caught 

a  clap. 
And  fetch  my  surgeon  to  her.    Come,  my  lord, 
We'l  now  peruse  our  letter. 

Exeunt  Mons  [zVar] ,  Guise.    Lead  her  out. 
Per.  Furies  rise  150 

Out  of  the  black  lines,  and  torment  his  soule  ! 


Tarn.   Hath  my  lord  slaine  my  woman  ? 

Beh.  No,  she  lives. 

Fri.   What  shall  become  of  us  ? 

Beh.  All  I  can  say, 

Being  call'd  thus  late,  is  briefe,  and  darkly  this  : — 
If  D'Ambois  mistresse  die  not  her  white  hand    155 
In  her  forc'd  bloud,  he  shall  remaine  untoucht : 

143   rather  be  a  bitter.   A,  be,  at  least,  if  not  a. 
145    To  you   .    .    .me?    A  omits.      Enter  ser-vant.    A  omits. 
155   die.   A,  stay.      156   In.  A,  With.      her.    Emend.  Dilke  ; 
Qq,  his.    See  note,  p.  159. 


no  115u8i0^  2r>'^mboi0         [activ. 

So,  father,  shall  your  selfe,  but  by  your  selfe. 
To  make  this  augurie  plainer,  when  the  voyce 
Of  D'Amboys  shall  invoke  me,  I  will  rise 
Shining  in  greater  light,  and  shew  him  all  i6o 

That  will  betide  ye  all.    Meane  time  be  wise, 
And  curb  his  valour  with  your  policies. 

Descetidit  cum  suis. 

Buss.  Will  he  appeare  to  me  when  I  invoke 
him  ? 

Fri.   He  will,  be  sure. 

Buss.  It  must  be  shortly,  then, 

For  his  dark  words  have  tyed  my  thoughts  on 

knots  165 

Till  he  dissolve  and  free  them. 

Tarn.  In  meane  time, 

Deare  servant,  till  your  powerfull  voice  revoke 

him. 
Be  sure  to  use  the  policy  he  advis'd ; 
Lest  fury  in  your  too  quick  knowledge  taken 
Of  our  abuse,  and  your  defence  of  me,  170 

Accuse  me  more  than  any  enemy. 
And,  father,  you  must  on  my  lord  impose 
Your  holiest  charges,  and  the  Churches  power. 
To  temper  his  hot  spirit,  and  disperse 
The  cruelty  and  the  bloud  I  know  his  hand        175 
Will  showre  upon  our  heads,  if  you  put  not 

162  And  curb  .    .    .  policies.  A,  And  let  him  curb  his  rage  with 
policy. 


Scene  II.]  11BU00^  SD'^mbOtSf  HI 

Your  finger  to  the  storme,  and  hold  it  up, 
As  my  deare  servant  here  must  doe  with  Mon- 
sieur. 
Buss.  He  sooth  his  plots,  and  strow  my  hate 
with  smiles. 
Till  all  at  once  the  close  mines  of  my  heart        i8o 
Rise  at  full  date,  and  rush  into  his  bloud  : 
He  bind  his  arme  in  silk,  and  rub  his  flesh 
To  make  the  veine  swell,  that  his  soule  may  gush 
Into  some  kennell  where  it  longs  to  lie ; 
And  policy  shall  be  flanckt  with  policy.  185 

Yet  shall  the  feeling  Center  where  we  meet 
Groane  with  the  wait  of  my  approaching  feet : 
He  make  th'inspired  threshals  of  his  Court 
Sweat  with  the  weather  of  my  horrid  steps, 
Before  I  enter :  yet  will  I  appeare  190 

Like  calme  security  before  a  ruine. 
A  politician  must,  like  lightning,  melt 
The  very  marrow,  and  not  taint  the  skin  : 
His  wayes  must  not  be  scene ;  the  superficies 
Of  the  greene  Center  must  not  taste  his  feet,     195 
When  hell  is  plow'd  up  with  his  wounding  tracts. 
And  all  his  harvest  reap't  by  hellish  facts. 

Exeunt. 

193   taint.    A,  print.  197  iy.    A,  from. 

Fmis  Actus  ^arti. 


Actus  Quinti  Scena  Prima. 

\_j4  Room  />/  Montsurrf  s  House.'\ 

Mofitsurry  bare,  unbrac'  t,  pulling  Tamyra  in  by  the 
haire  ;  Frier  ;  One  bearing  light,  a  standish,  and 
paper,  which  sets  a  table. 

Tamyra.  O,  help  me,  father  ! 

Friar.  Impious  earle,  forbeare  ; 

Take  violent  hand  from  her,  or,  by  mine  order, 
The  King  shall  force  thee. 

Montsurry.  Tis  not  violent ; 

Come  you  not  willingly  ? 

Tarn.  Yes,  good  my  lord. 

Fri.   My  lord,  remember  that  your  soule  must 
seek  5 

Her  peace  as  well  as  your  revengefull  bloud. 
You  ever  to  this  houre  have  prov'd  your  selfe 
A  noble,  zealous,  and  obedient  sonne 
T'our  holy  mother :   be  not  an  apostate. 
Your  wives  offence  serves  not  (were  it  the  worst  lo 
You  can  imagine)  without  greater  proofes 
To  sever  your  eternall  bonds  and  hearts ; 
Much  lesse  to  touch  her  with  a  bloudy  hand. 
Nor  is  it  manly  (much  lesse  husbandly) 
To  expiate  any  frailty  in  your  wife  15 

by  the  haire.    A  omits.       1-4   0,  help  .  .  .  my  lord.    A  omits. 


Scene  I]  115U0fl(^  SD'^ttlbOlS!  II3 

With  churlish  strokes,  or  beastly  ods  of  strength. 
The  stony  birth  of  clowds  will  touch  no  lawrell. 
Nor  any  sleeper  :  your  wife  is  your  lawrell, 
And  sweetest  sleeper ;  doe  not  touch  her,  then  ; 
Be  not  more  rude  than  the  wild  seed  of  vapour    20 
To  her  that  is  more  gentle  than  that  rude; 
In  whom  kind  nature  suffer'd  one  offence 
But  to  set  off  her  other  excellence. 

Mont.   Good   father,  leave   us :   interrupt  no 
more 
The  course  I  must  runne  for  mine  honour  sake.  25 
Rely  on  my  love  to  her,  which  her  fault 
Cannot  extinguish.    Will  she  but  disclose 
Who  was  the  secret  minister  of  her  love. 
And  through  what  maze  he  serv'd  it,  we  are 
friends. 
Fri.   It  is  a  damn'd  work  to  pursue  those  se- 
crets 30 
That  would  ope  more  sinne,  and  prove  springs  of 

slaughter ; 
Nor  is't  a  path  for  Christian  feet  to  tread. 
But  out  of  all  way  to  the  health  of  soules ; 
A  sinne  impossible  to  be  forgiven, 
Which  he  that  dares  commit  — 

Mont.  Good  father,  cease  your  terrors.  35 

21   than  that.   A,  than  it.  28  secret.    A,  hateful. 

32   tread.     A,  touch.  35  your  terrors.    A  omits. 

35-6    Gooii  .    .    .   distracted.    B  punctuates :  — 

Good  father  cease  :   your  terrors 

Tempt  not  a  man  distracted. 


114  Bug^fif^  ffl>'^mboi0  [actv. 

Tempt  not  a  man  distracted  ;  I  am  apt 
To  outrages  that  I  shall  ever  rue  : 
I  will  not  passe  the  verge  that  bounds  a  Chris- 
tian, 
Nor  break  the  limits  of  a  man  nor  husband. 

Fri.   Then    Heaven    inspire   you    both   with 

thoughts  and  deeds  4° 

Worthy  his  high  respect,  and  your  owne  soules  ! 

Tarn.   Father  ! 

Fri.         I  warrant  thee,  my  dearest  daughter, 
He  will  not  touch  thee ;   think'st  thou   him  a 


pagan 


His  honor  and  his  soule  lies  for  thy  safety. 

Exit. 
Mont.  Who  shall  remove  the  mountaine  from 

my  brest,  45 

Stand  [in]  the  opening  furnace  of  my  thoughts, 
And  set  fit  out-cries  for  a  soule  in  hell  ? 

Mo?it^si/rry^  turjies  a  key. 
For  now  it  nothing  fits  my  woes  to  speak. 
But  thunder,  or  to  take  into  my  throat 
The  trump  of  Heaven,  with  whose  determinate 

blasts  5° 

The  windes  shall  burst  and  the  devouring  seas 
Be  drunk  up  in  his  sounds,  that  my  hot  woes 

40  Hea-ven.  A,  God.  you.  A,  ye.  42-4  Father  ,  .  ,  safety. 
A  omits.  45  brest.  A,  heart.  46  Stand  [/«]  tAe  opening. 
Emend,  ed.;  A,  Ope  the  seven-times  heat ;  B,  Stand  the  opening. 

48   luoes.    A,  cares.      51   devouring.    A,  enraged. 


Scene  I.]  115USf0^  SD'^tttbOtg;  115 

(Vented  enough)  I  might  convert  to  vapour 
Ascending  from  my  infamie  unseene  ; 
Shorten  the  world,  preventing  the  last  breath        55 
That  kils  the  living,  and  regenerates  death. 

Tarn.  My  lord,  my  fault  (as  you  may  censure  it 
With  too  strong  arguments)  is  past  your  pardon. 
But  how  the  circumstances  may  excuse  mee, 
Heaven  knowes,  and  your  more  temperate  minde 

hereafter  60 

May  let  my  penitent  miseries  make  you  know. 

Mont.    Hereafter  !   tis  a  suppos'd  infinite 
That  from  this  point  will  rise  eternally. 
Fame  growes  in  going ;   in  the  scapes  of  vertue 
Excuses  damne  her  :   they  be  fires  in  cities  65 

Enrag'd  with  those  winds  that  lesse  lights  extin- 
guish. 
Come  syren,  sing,  and  dash  against  my  rocks 
Thy  ruffin  gaily  rig'd  with  quench  for  lust : 
Sing,  and  put  all  the  nets  into  thy  voice 
With  which  thou  drew'st  into  thy  strumpets  lap  70 
The  spawne  of  Venus,  and  in  which  ye  danc'd  j 
That,  in  thy  laps  steed,  I  may  digge  his  tombe, 
And  quit  his  manhood  with  a  womans  sleight. 
Who  never  is  deceiv'd  in  her  deceit. 
Sing  (that  is,  write);  and  then  take  from  mine  eyes  75 
The  mists  that  hide  the  most  inscrutable  pander 

60   Hea-ven.    A,  God. 

68    rig'  d  ivitk  quench  for.     A,  laden  for  thy. 


ii6  Bu0!0(^  SD'^mbots;  [act  v. 

That  ever  lapt  up  an  adulterous  vomit, 

That  I  may  see  the  devill,  and  survive 

To  be  a  devill,  and  then  learne  to  wive  ! 

That  I  may  hang  him,  and  then  cut  him  downe,    80 

Then   cut  him   up,  and  with  my  soules  beams 

search 
The  cranks  and  cavernes  of  his  braine,  and  study 
The  errant  wildernesse  of  a  womans  face. 
Where  men  cannot  get  out,  for  all  the  comets 
That  have  beene  lighted  at  it.  Though  they  know  85 
That  adders  lie  a  sunning  in  their  smiles, 
That  basilisks  drink  their  poyson  from  their  eyes. 
And  no  way  there  to  coast  out  to  their  hearts, 
Yet  still  they  wander  there,  and  are  not  stay'd 
Till  they  be  fetter'd,  nor  secure  before  90 

All  cares  devoure  them,  nor  in  humane  consort 
Till  they  embrace  within  their  wives  two  breasts 
All  Pelion  and  Cythaeron  with  their  beasts.  — 
Why  write  you  not  ? 

Tarn.  O,  good  my  lord,  forbeare 

In  wreak  of  great  faults  to  engender  greater,        95 
And  make  my  loves  corruption  generate  murther. 

Mont.  It followes needfully aschildeand parent ; 
The  chaine-shot  of  thy  lust  is  yet  aloft. 
And  it  mustmurther;  tis  thineowne  dearetwinne. 
No  man  can  adde  height  to  a  womans  sinne.       100 
Vice  never  doth  her  just  hate  so  provoke, 

91   devoure.    A,  distract,    consort.    A,  state.    95  faults.    A,  sins. 


Scene  I]  115U00^  HD'^mbOtSf  II7 

As  when  she  rageth  under  vertues  cloake. 
Write  !   for  it  must  be  —  by  this  ruthlesse  Steele, 
By  this  impartiall  torture,  and  the  death 
Thy  tyrannies  have  invented  in  my  entrails,        105 
To  quicken  life  in  dying,  and  hold  up 
The  spirits  in  fainting,  teaching  to  preserve 
Torments  in  ashes  that  will  ever  last. 
Speak  :   will  you  write  ? 

Tam.  Sweet  lord,  enjoyne  my  sinne 

Some  other  penance  than  what  makes  it  worse  :iio 
Hide  in  some  gloomie  dungeon  my  loth'd  face. 
And  let  condemned  murtherers  let  me  downe 
(Stopping  their  noses)  my  abhorred  food  : 
Hang  me  in  chaines,  and  let  me  eat  these  armes 
That  have  offended  :   binde  me  face  to  face         115 
To  some  dead  woman,  taken  from  the  cart 
Of  execution  — till  death  and  time 
In  graines  of  dust  dissolve  me.  He  endure  ; 
Or  any  torture  that  your  wraths  invention 
Can  fright  all  pitie  from  the  world  withall.  120 

But  to  betray  a  friend  with  shew  of  friendship, 
That  is  too  common  for  the  rare  revenge 
Your  rage  affecteth ;  here  then  are  my  breasts, 
Lastnightyourpillowes;  here  my  wretched  armes, 
As  late  the  wished  confines  of  your  life  :  125 

Now  break    them,  as  you    please,  and  all  the 

bounds 
Of  manhood,  noblesse,  and  religion. 


ii8  115u0flf^  E>'^mbois(  [actv. 

Mont.   Where  all  these  have  bin  broken,  they 
are  kept 
In  doing  their  justice  there  with  any  shew 
Of  the  like  cruell  cruelty  :  thine  armes  have  lost  13° 
Their  priviledge  in  lust,  and  in  their  torture 
Thus  they  must  pay  it.  Stabs  her. 

Tarn.  O  lord  — 

Mont.  Till  thou  writ'st, 

He  write  in  wounds  (my  wrongs  fit  characters) 
Thy  right  of  sufferance.    Write  ! 

Tarn.  O  kill  me,  kill  me ! 

Deare  husband,  be  not  crueller  than  death  !  13S 

You  have  beheld  some  Gorgon  :   feele,  O  feele 
How  you  are  turn'd  to  stone.    With  my  heart 

blood 
Dissolve  your  selfe  againe,  or  you  will  grow 
Into  the  image  of  all  tyrannie. 

Mont.   As  thou  art  of  adultry  ;   I  will  ever      140 
Prove  thee  my  parallel,  being  most  a  monster. 
Thus  I  expresse  thee  yet.  Stabs  her  againe. 

Tarn.  And  yet  I  live. 

Mont.   I,  for  thy  monstrous  idoll  is  not  done 
yet. 
This  toole  hath  wrought  enough.  Now,  Torture, 
use  Etit^er^  Servants. 

This  other  engine  on  th'habituate  powers  145 

129  luith  any  sheiv  .  .  .  cruelty.    A  omits.      140  e-ver.    A,  still. 
141  parallel.    A,  like  in  ill.  Enter  Ser-vants.    A  omits. 


Scene  I]  11BUS(0^  2D'^mboifl(  HQ 

Of  her  thrice  damn'd  and  whorish  fortitude  : 

Use  the  most  madding  paines  in  her  that  ever 

Thy  venoms   sok'd   through,  making   most   of 
death, 

That  she  may  weigh  her  wrongs  with  them  — 
and  then 

Stand,  vengeance,  on  thy  steepest  rock,  a  victor!  150 
Tarn.   O  who  is  turn'd  into  my  lord  and  hus- 
band ? 

Husband !    my   lord !    None  but    my   lord    and 
husband ! 

Heaven,  I  ask  thee  remission  of  my  sinnes, 

Not  of  my  paines  :  husband,  O  help  me,  hus- 
band! 

Ascetidit  Frier  with  a  sword  drawne. 
Fri.  What  rape  of  honour  and  religion  I  155 

O  wrack  of  nature  !  Falls  and  dies. 

Tarn.  Poore  man  !   O,  my  father  I 

Father,  look  up  !    O,  let  me  downe,  my  lord, 

And  I  will  write. 

Mont.  Author  of  prodigies  ! 

What  new  flame  breakes  out  of  the  firmament 

That  turnes  up  counsels  never  knowne  before?  160 

Now  is  it  true,  earth  moves,  and  heaven  stands 
still ; 

Even  heaven  it  selfe  must  see  and  suffer  ill. 

The  too  huge  bias  of  the  world  hath  sway'd 

with  a  sivord  draivne.    A  omits.        Fal/s  and  dies.    A  omits. 


1 20  115u00^  SD'^mbois  [act  v. 

Her  back-part  upwards,  and  with  that  she  braves 
This    hemisphere    that    long    her   mouth    hath 

mockt :  165 

The  gravity  of  her  religious  face 
(Now  growne  too  waighty  with  her  sacriledge, 
And  here  discern'd  sophisticate  enough) 
Turnes  to  th' Antipodes  ;  and  all  the  formes 
That  her  illusions  have  imprest  in  her  170 

Have  eaten  through  her  back ;   and  now  all  see 
How  she  is  riveted  with  hypocrisie. 
Was  this  the  way  ?    was  he  the  mean  betwixt 

you  ? 
Tarn.   He  was,  he  was,  kind  worthy  man,  he 

was. 
Mont.   Write,  write  a  word  or  two. 
Tarn.  I  will,  I  will.  175 

He  write,  but  with  my  bloud,  that  he  may  see 
These  lines  come  from  my  wounds  &  not  from 

me.  Writes. 

Mont.   Well  might  he  die  for  thought :   me- 

thinks  the  frame 
And  shaken  joynts  of  the  whole  world  should 

crack 
To  see  her  parts  so  disproportionate;  180 

And  that  his  generall  beauty  cannot  stand 
Without  these  Staines  in  the  particular  man. 
Why  wander  I  so  farre  ?  here,  here  was  she 

174  'worthy.    A,  innocent. 


Scene  II.]  'Bu&H^  W9im\}0i&  121 

That  was  a  whole  world  without  spot  to  me, 

Though   now  a  world   of   spots.    Oh    what  a 

lightning  185 

Is  mans  delight  in  women  !    What  a  bubble 

He  builds  his  state,  fame,  life  on,  when  he  mar- 
ries ! 

Since  all  earths  pleasures  are  so  short  and  small, 

The  way  t'enjoy  it  is  t'abjure  it  all. 

Enough  !   I  must  be  messenger  my  selfe,  190 

Disguis'd    like    this    strange    creature.    In,   He 
after. 

To  see  what  guilty  light  gives  this  cave  eyes. 

And  to  the  world  sing  new  impieties. 

He  puis  the   Frier  in  the  vault  and  follows. 
She  raps  her  self  in  the  arras. 

Exeunt  \_Servants'\ . 

[SCENA    SeCUNDA. 

^  Room  in  Montsurrf  s  House. "^ 

Enter  Monsieur  and  Guise. 

Monsieur.   Now  shall  we  see  that  Nature  hath 
no  end 
In  her  great  works  responsive  to  their  worths  ; 
That  she,  that  makes  so  many  eyes  and  soules 

He  .  .  .  arras.  Exeunt.  A  omits  ;  B  places  He  .  .  .  arras  after 
Exeunt.  1—59  N01V  shall  .  .  .  ive  luill  my  lord.  These  lines  are 
placed  in  A  at  the  beginning  of  Scena    guarta. 

3   that  makes.    A,  who  makes. 


122  515u00^  21>':amboi0  [act  v. 

To  see  and  fore-see,  is  stark  blind  her  selfe ; 

And  as  illiterate  men  say  Latine  prayers  5 

By  rote  of  heart  and  dayly  iteration, 

Not  knowing  what  they  say,  so  Nature  layes 

A  deale  of  stufFe  together,  and  by  use. 

Or  by  the  meere  necessity  of  matter. 

Ends  such  a  work,  fills  it,  or  leaves  it  empty        10 

Of  strength,  or  vertue,  error,  or  cleare  truth, 

Not  knowing  what  she  does ;  but  usually 

Gives  that  which  we  call  merit  to  a  man. 

And  behefe  must  arrive  him  on  huge  riches. 

Honour  and  happinesse,  that  effects  his  ruine.       15 

Even  as  in  ships  of  warre  whole  lasts  of  powder 

Are   laid,  me   thinks,  to   make  them  last,  and 

gard  them. 
When  a  disorder'd  spark,  that  powder  taking, 
Blowes  up,  with  sodaine  violence  and  horror. 
Ships   that  (kept  empty)  had   sayl'd  long,  with 

terror.  20 

Guise.    He   that   observes  but   like  a  worldly 

man 

7  Not  knoiving  ivhat  they  say.     Omitted   in   A,  which  has    - 
Stead  :  — 

In  whose  hot  zeale  a  man  would  thinke  they  knew 
What  they  ranne  so  away  with,  and  were  sure 
To  have  rewards  proportion'd  to  their  labours; 
Yet  may  implore  their  owne  confusions 
For  anything  they  know,  which  oftentimes 
It  fals  out  they  incurre. 

8  deale.    A,  masse.  13   ive  call.    A  ;   B,  she  calls. 
14  must.    A,  should.                   16   E-ven.     A,  Right. 

J  7   me  thinks,    men  thinke.    gard  them.    A;    B,  guard. 


Scene  II.]  115U00^  HD'^mbOlS?  1 23 

That  which  doth  oft  succeed  and  by  th'events 
Values  the  worth  of  things,  will  think  it  true 
That  Nature  works  at  random,  just  with  you  : 
But  with  as  much  proportion  she  may  make         ^5 
A  thing  that  from  the  feet  up  to  the  throat 
Hath  all  the  wondrous  fabrique  man  should  have. 
And  leave  it  headlesse,  for  a  perfect  man. 
As  give  a  full  man  valour,  vertue,  learning, 
"Without  an  end  more  excellent  then  those  30 

On  whom  she  no  such  worthy  part  bestowes. 
Mom.  Yet  shall  you  see  it  here ;   here  will  be 

one 
Young,     learned,    valiant,    vertuous,    and     full 

mann'd  ; 
One  on  whom  Nature  spent  so  rich  a  hand 
That  with  an  ominous  eye  she  wept  to  see  35 

So  much  consum'd  her  vertuous  treasurie. 
Yet  as  the  winds  sing  through  a  hollow  tree, 
And  (since  it  lets  them  passe  through)  let's  it 

stand  ; 
But  a  tree  solid  (since  it  gives  no  way 
To  their  wild  rage)  they  rend  up  by  the  root :      4° 
So  this  whole  man 

(That  will  not  wind  with  every  crooked  way 
Trod  by  the  servile  world)  shall  reele  and  fall 

25  proportion.  A,  decorum.  28  a  perfect.  A,  an  absolute. 
29  full.  A,  whole.  32  Tet  shall  you.  A,  Why  you  shall. 
38  let's.  A,  let.  40  rage.  A,  rages.  41-43  &o  thh  .  .  .  and 
fall.    A  has  instead  :  So  this  full  creature  now  shall  reele  and  fall. 


1 24  )5u&&^  D'^mbois;         [act  v. 

Before  the  frantick  pufFes  of  blind  borne  chance, 
That  pipes  through  empty  men  and  makes  them 

dance.  45 

Not  so  the  sea  raves  on  the  Libian  sands, 
Tumbling  her  billowes  in  each  others  neck : 
Not  so  the  surges  of  the  Euxian  Sea 
(Neere  to  the  frosty  pole,  where  free  Bootes 
From  those  dark  deep  waves  turnes  his  radiant 

teame)  5° 

Swell,  being   enrag'd   even    from   their   inmost 

drop. 
As  fortune  swings  about  the  restlesse  state 
Of  vertue  now  throwne  into  all  mens  hate. 

Enter  Montsurry  disguis'  d,  with  the  murtherers. 
Away,  my  lord;  you  are  perfectly  disguis'd  ; 
Leave  us  to  lodge  your  ambush. 

Montsurry.  Speed  me,  vengeance  !   55 

Exit. 
Mons.   Resolve,  my  masters,  you  shall  meet 
with  one 
Will   try  what    proofes    your  privy   coats    are 

made  on  : 
When  he  is  entred,  and  you  heare  us  stamp. 
Approach,  and  make  all  sure. 

Murderers.  We  will,  my  lord. 

Exeunt. 

44  blind  borne.    A,  purblinde. 

Enter   Montsurry   .    .    .    murtherers,   and  54-59,  Atuay   .   .   . 
•will,  my  lord.    Omitted  in  A. 


Scene  III]  )5U&&^  W>'9imhoi&  12$ 

[SCENA    TeRTIA. 

^  Room  in  Bmsf  s  House. '\ 

U  Ambois,  with  two  Pages  with  tapers. 

Bussy.  Sit  up  to  night,  and  watch  :   He  speak 
with  none 
But  the  old  Frier,  who  bring  to  me. 
Pages.  We  will,  sir. 

Exeunt. 
Buss.  What  violent  heat  is  this  ?  me  thinks 
the  fire 
Of  twenty  lives  doth  on  a  suddaine  flash 
Through  all  my  faculties  :  the  ayre  goes  high 
In  this  close  chamber  and  the  frighted  earth 

Thunder. 
Trembles  and  shrinks  beneath  me  ;  the  whole 

house 
Nods  with  his  shaken  burthen. 

EnterUmb\ra~\   Frier. 

Blesse  me,  heaven  ! 
Umb  [ra  Friar'\ .      Note  what   I  want,  deare 
Sonne,  and  be  fore-warn'd. 

0  there  are  bloudy  deeds  past  and  to  come. 

1  cannot  stay  ;   a  fate  doth  ravish  me ; 

lie  meet  thee  in  the  chamber  of  thy  love.    Exit. 

•with  tapers.    A  omits.  Thunder.    A  omits. 

8  Nods.    A,  Crackes. 

Enter  .    .    .    Frier.    Placed  after  hea-ven  in  ^<\. 

9  deare.    A,  my. 


126  515u00^  SD'^mUois  [actv. 

Buss.  What  dismall  change  is  here  !   the  good 

old  Frier 
Is  murther'd,  being  made  knowne  to  serve  my 

love  ; 
And  now  his  restlesse  spirit  would  fore-warne  me   15 
Of  some  plot  dangerous,  and  imminent. 
Note  what  he  wants  !   He  wants  his  upper  weed, 
He  wants  his  life,  and  body  :   which  of  these 
Should  be  the  want  he  meanes,  and  may  supply 

me 
With  any  fit  fore-warning  ?    This  strange  vision,  20 
(Together  with  the  dark  prediction 
Us'd  by  the  Prince  of  Darknesse  that  was  rais'd 
By  this  embodied  shadow)  stirre  my  thoughts 
With  reminiscion  of  the  Spirits  promise. 
Who  told  me  that  by  any  invocation  25 

I  should  have   power   to  raise  him,  though  it 

wanted 
The  powerfull  words  and  decent  rites  of  art. 
Never  had  my  set  braine  such  need  of  spirit 
T'instruct    and    cheere    it  ;    now    then    I   will 

claime 
Performance  of  his  free  and  gentle  vow  30 

T'appeare  in  greater  light,  and  make  more  plain 
His  rugged  oracle.    I  long  to  know 
How  my  deare  mistresse  fares,  and  be  inform'd 

15—16   And  710-w   .   ,   .   imminent.    A  omits. 
17  upper.    A,  utmost. 


Scene  III.]  )15U00^  SD'^mbOlSf  127 

What  hand  she  now  holds  on  the  troubled  bloud 
Of  her  incensed  lord  :   me  thought  the  Spirit         35 
(When  he  had  utter'd  his  perplext  presage) 
Threw  his  chang'd  countenance  headlong  into 

clouds  ; 
His  forehead  bent,  as  it  would  hide  his  face, 
He  knockt  his  chin  against  his  darkned  breast. 
And  struck  a  churlish  silence  through  his  pow'rs.  40 
Terror  of  darknesse  !   O,  thou  King  of  flames  ! 
That  with  thy  musique-footed  horse  dost  strike 
The  cleare  light  out  of  chrystall  on  dark  earth. 
And  hurlst  instructive  fire  about  the  world. 
Wake,  wake,  the  drowsie  and  enchanted  night    45 
That  sleepes  with  dead  eyes   m   this  heavy  rid- 
dle ! 
Or  thou  great  Prince  of  Shades,  where  never 

sunne 
Stickes  his   far-darted  beames,  whose  eyes  are 

made 
To  shine  in  darknesse,  and  see  ever  best 
Where  men  are  blindest,  open  now  the  heart        50 
Of  thy  abashed  oracle,  that,  for  feare 
Of  some  ill  it  includes,  would  faine  lie  hid, 
And  rise  thou  with  it  in  thy  greater  light  ! 
Thunders.     Surgit  Spiritus  cum  suis. 
Behemoth.   Thus,  to  observe   my  vow  of  ap- 
parition 

49  ihine.   A,  see.      50  men  are.    A,  sense  is.     Thunders    A  omits 


128  515u0s;^  SD'^mbois  [act  v. 

In  greater  light,  and  explicate  thy  fate,  S5 

I  come  ;  and  tell  thee  that,  if  thou  obey 

The  summons  that  thy  mistresse  next  will  send 

thee. 
Her  hand  shall  be  thy  death. 

Buss.  When  will  she  send  ? 

Beh.   Soone  as  I  set  againe,  where  late  I  rose. 

Buss.  Is  the  old  Frier  slaine  ? 

Beh.  No,  and  yet  lives  not.  60 

Buss.  Died  he  a  naturall  death  ? 

Beh.  He  did. 

Buss.  Who  then 

Will  my  deare  mistresse  send  ? 

Beh.  I  must  not  tell  thee. 

Buss.   Who  lets  thee  ? 

Beh.  Fate. 

Buss.  Who  are  Fates  ministers  ? 

Beh.   The  Guise  and  Monsieur. 

Buss.  A  fit  paire  of  sheeres 

To  cut  the  threds  of  kings  and  kingly  spirits,      65 
And  consorts  fit  to  sound  forth  harmony 
Set  to  the  fals  of  kingdomes.   Shall  the  hand 
Of  my  kind  mistresse  kill  me  ? 

Beh.  If  thou  yeeld 

To   her   next    summons.     Y'are    faire  warn'd ; 
farewell !  Thunders.  Exit. 

Buss.   I  must  fare  well,  how  ever,  though  I  die,  70 

Thunders.  A  omits. 


Scene  III.]  115US(Sf^  SD'^mboitf  1 29 

My  death  consenting  with  his  augurie. 
Should    not   my  powers   obay   when   she   com- 
mands, 
My  motion  must  be  rebell  to  my  will, 
My  will  to  life ;  if,  when  I  have  obay'd. 
Her  hand  should  so  reward  me,  they  must  arme  it,  75 
Binde  me,  or  force  it  ;  or,  I  lay  my  life, 
She  rather  would  convert  it  many  times 
On  her  owne  bosome,  even  to  many  deaths. 
But  were  there  danger  of  such  violence, 
I  know  'tis  farre  from  her  intent  to  send  :  80 

And    who    she    should    send    is    as    farre    from 

thought. 
Since  he  is  dead  whose  only  mean  she  us'd. 

Knocks. 

Whose  there  ?   Look  to  the  dore,  and  let  him  in. 

Though  politick  Monsieur,  or  the  violent  Guise. 

Enter  Montsurry  like  the  Frier,  with  a  letter  written 

in  bloud. 

Mont.    Haile  to  my  worthy  sonne  ! 

Buss.  O  lying  Spirit,  85 

To  say  the  Frier  was  dead  I  He  now  beleeve 

76   or.    A,  and.  luith  a  letter  'written  in  bloud.  A  omits. 

85-98  0  lying  Spirit  .  .    .  calls  him.  Omitted  in  A,  which  has 
instead  :  — 

Buss.  O  lying  Spirit :  welcome,  loved  father. 
How  fares  my  dearest  mistresse  i 

Mont.  Well  as  ever, 

Being  well  as  ever  thought  on  by  her  lord  ; 
Wherof  she  sends  this  witnesse  in  her  hand. 
And  praies,  for  urgent  cause,  your  speediest  presence. 


130  Busfs;^  2r)';9lmboisf         [actv. 

Nothing  of  all  his  forg'd  predictions. 
My  kinde  and  honour'd  father,  well  rev'iv'd  ! 
I  have  beene  frighted  with  your  death  and  mine, 
And  told  my  mistresse  hand  should  be  my  death,  90 
If  I  obeyed  this  summons. 

Mont.  I  beleev'd 

Your  love  had  bin  much  clearer  then  to  give 
Any  such  doubt  a  thought,  for  she  is  cleare. 
And  having  freed  her  husbands  jealousie 
(Of  which   her  much  abus'd  hand  here  is  wit- 

nesse)  95 

She  prayes,  for  urgent  cause,  your  instant  pre- 
sence. 

Buss.   Why,  then,  your  Prince  of  Spirits  may 
be  call'd 
The  Prince  of  lyers. 

Mont.  Holy  Writ  so  calls  him. 

Buss.   What !   writ  in  bloud  ! 

Mont.  I,  'tis  the  ink  of  lovers. 

Buss.   O,  'tis  a  sacred  wiinesse  of  her  love.     100 
So  much  elixer  of  her  bloud  as  this, 
Dropt   in  the  lightest   dame,  would   make   her 

firme 
As  heat  to  fire ;  and,  like  to  all  the  signes. 
Commands  the  life  confinde  in  all  my  veines. 
O,  how  it  multiplies  my  bloud  with  spirit,  105 

And  makes  me  apt  t'encounter  death  and  hell. 

91-92   I  bdee-ved  .   .    .  gi-ve.    One  line  in  B. 


Scene  IV. J  liBUfiS^  ED'^ttlbOlS  I3I 

But  come,  kinde  father  ;  you  fetch  me  to  heaven, 
And  to  that  end  your  holy  weed  was  given. 

Exeunt. 

[SCENA    QUARTA. 

A  Room  in  Montsurrf  s  House.~\ 

Thunder.  Intrat  Umbra  Frier  and  discovers  Tamyra. 

[  Umbra\  Friar.  Up  with  these  stupid  thoughts, 
still  loved  daughter, 
And  strike  away  this  heartlesse  trance  of  an- 
guish : 
Be  like  the  sunne,  and  labour  in  eclipses. 
Look  to  the  end  of  woes  :   oh,  can  you  sit 
Mustering  the  horrors  of  your  servants  slaughter 
Before  your  contemplation,  and  not  study 
How  to  prevent  it  ?   Watch  when  he  shall  rise, 
And,  with  a  suddaine  out-crie  of  his  murther. 
Blow  his  retreat  before  he  be  revenged. 

Tamyra.   O  father,  have  my  dumb  woes  wak'd 
your  death  ? 
When  will  our  humane  griefes  be  at  their  height  ? 
Man  is  a  tree  that  hath  no  top  in  cares. 

Thunder   .    .    .    Tamyra.     A  has  :    Intrat  umbra  Comolet  to  the 
Countesse,  ivrapt  in  a  canapie. 

1-6    Up   .    .    ,   not  study.  Omitted  in  A,  which  has  instead  :  — 

Revive  those  stupid  thoughts,  and  sit  not  thus, 
Gathering  the  horrors  of  your  servants  slaughter 
(So  urg'd  by  your  hand,  and  so  imminent) 
Into  an  idle  fancie;  but  devise. 

9  revenged.    A,  engaged. 


132  115ug0^  SD'ambois  [act  v. 

No  root  in  comforts ;  all  his  power  to  live 
Is  given  to  no  end  but  t'have  power  to  grieve. 

Umb.  Fri.   It  is  the  misery  of  our  creation.       15 
Your  true  friend. 

Led  by  your  husband,  shadowed  in  my  weed. 
Now  enters  the  dark  vault. 

Tarn.  But,  my  dearest  father, 

Why  will  not  you  app6are  to  him  your  selfe, 
And  see  that  none  of  these  deceits  annoy  him  ?   20 
Umb.  Fri.   My  power  is  limited  ;  alas  !  I  can- 
not ; 
All  that  I  can  doe  —  See  !   the  cave  opens. 

Exit. 
U  Amboys  at  the  gulfe. 
Tarn.   Away  (my  love)  away  !   thou  wilt  be 
murther'd. 
Enter  Mo?isieur  and  Guise  above. 
Bussy.   Murther'd !    I    know   not   what    that 
Hebrew  means  : 
That  word    had    ne're  bin    nam'd    had   all   bin 

D'Ambois.  25 

14  f  ha-ve.  A  ;   B,  have. 

15-22   It  is  .  .  .  opens.    Omitted  in  A,  which  has  instead  :  — 

Umh.  Tis  the  just  curse  of  our  abus'd  creation, 
Which  wee  must  suffer  heere,  and  scape  heereafter  : 
He  hath  the  great  mind  that  submits  to  all 
He  sees  inevitable  ;  he  the  small 
That  carps  at  earth,  and  her  foundation  shaker. 
And  rather  than  himselfe,  will  mend  his  maker. 

16  TTour  .    .    .  friend.    In  B  ends  preceding  line. 

Enter  .  .  .  abo-ve.    A  omits. 


Scene  IV.]  115USf0^  SE>'^mboi0  133 

Murther'd  !    By  heaven,  he  is  my  murtherer 
That  shewes  me  not  a   murtherer :   what  such 

bugge 
Abhorreth  not  the  very  sleepe  of  D'Amboys  ? 
Murther'd  !    Who  dares  give  all  the  room  I  see 
To  D'Ambois  reach  ?   or  look  with  any  odds       30 
His  fight  i'th'  face,  upon  whose  hand  sits  death, 
Whose    sword  hath  wings,  and    every    feather 

pierceth  ? 
If  I  scape  Monsieurs  pothecarie  shops, 
Foutir  for  Guises  shambles  !    'Twas  ill  plotted  ; 
They  should  have  mall'd  me  here  35 

When  I  was  rising.    I  am  up  and  ready. 
Let  in  my  politique  visitants,  let  them  in. 
Though  entring  like  so  many  moving  armours. 
Fate   is  more  strong  than   arms  and   slie  than 

treason, 
And  I  at  all  parts  buckl'd  in  my  fate.  4° 

^   .   '  [•  Why  enter  not  the  coward  villains  ? 
Guise.  )  ■' 

Buss.   Dare  they  not  come  ? 

Enter  Murtherers,  with  ^JJmbra^   Frier  at  the  other 
dore. 
Tarn.  They  come. 

First  Murderer.  Come,  all  at  once  ! 

30    To.    Some  copies   of  B  have  T.      33-36   If  I  .    .    .   and 
ready.     A  omits.      41    ff^hy  .  .  .  -villains?    A  omits.    Enter  . 
dore.    A  omits. 


134  Wu&si^W^m\30i&  [actv. 

^Umbra^    Friar.    Back,   coward   murtherers, 

back! 
Omnes.  Defend  us  heaven  ! 

Exeunt  all  but  the  first. 
First  Murd.   Come  ye  not  on  ? 
Buss.  No,  slave  !  nor  goest  thou  off. 

Stand  you  so  firme  ? 

^Strikes  at  him  ivith  his  sword."^ 

Will  it  not  enter  here  ?        45 
You  have  a  face  yet.    So !   in  thy  lifes  flame 
I  burne  the  first  rites  to  my  mistresse  fame. 
Umb.  Fri.    Breath  thee,  brave  Sonne,  against 

the  other  charge. 
Buss.   O  is  it  true,  then,  that   my  sense   first 
told  me  ? 
Is  my  kind  father  dead  ? 

Ta?n.  He  is,  my  love ;  50 

'Twas  the  Earle,  my  husband,  in  his  weed  that 
brought  thee. 
Buss.   That  was  a  speeding  sleight,  and  well 
resembled. 
Where  is  that  angry  Earle  ?     My  lord  !   come 

forth, 
And  shew  your  owne  face  in  your  owne  affaire ; 
Take  not  into  your  noble  veines  the  blood  55 

Of  these  base  villaines,  nor  the  light  reports 

all   but   the  first.    A    omits.      53    Qq  punctuate    wrongly:  — 
Where  is  that  angry  Earle  my  lord  f     Come  forth. 


Scene  IV.]  115U00^  HD'^mUoi^  1 35 

Of  blister'd  tongues  for  cleare  and  weighty  truth  : 

But  me  against  the  world,  in  pure  defence 

Of  your  rare  lady,  to  whose  spotlesse  name 

I  stand  here  as  a  bulwark,  and  project  60 

A  life  to  her  renowne  that  ever  yet 

Hath  been  untainted,  even  in  envies  eye. 

And,  where  it  would  protect,  a  sanctuarie. 

Brave  Earle,  come  forth,  and  keep  your  scandal! 

in! 
'Tis  not  our  fault,  if  you  enforce. the  spot;  65 

Nor  the  wreak  yours,  if  you  performe  it  not. 
Enter  Mont  ^surryj  with  all  the  murtherers. 
Montsurry.    Cowards  !    a  fiend  or  spirit  beat 
ye  off! 
They  are  your  owne  faint  spirits  that  have  forg'd 
The  fearefull  shadowes  that  your  eyes  deluded  : 
The  fiend  was  in  you;  cast  him  out,  then,  thus  !   70 
\_Montsurry  fights  with   D'Jmbois.']     W  Arnbois  hath 
Montsurry  downe. 
Tarn.    Favour  my  lord,  my  love,  O,  favour 

him  ! 
Buss.   I  will  not  touch  him.    Take  your  life, 
my  lord. 
And  be  appeas'd,  Pistolls  shot  within. 

O  then  the  coward  Fates 
Have   maim'd   themselves,  and   ever  lost   their 
honour ! 

all  the  murtherers.     A,   others.      D' Amboh   .    .    .    doxune.     A 
omits.      Pistolli  shot  ivithin.     Inserted  before  72  in  B  ;   A  omits. 


136  llBugsi^  2D'ambot0  [actv. 

Umb.  Fri.    What  have  ye  done,  slaves  !    ir- 

relio-ious  lord  !  75 

Buss.   Forbeare  them,  father ;  'tis  enough  for 
me 
That  Guise  and  Monsieur,  death  and  destinie, 
Come  behind  D'Ambois.    Is  my  body,  then, 
But  penetrable  flesh,  and  must  my  mind 
Follow  my  blood  ?    Can  my  divine  part  adde        80 
No  ayd  to  th'earthly  in  extremity  ? 
Then  these  divines  are  but  for  forme,  not  fact : 
Man  is  of  two  sweet  courtly  friends  compact, 
A  mistresse  and  a  servant.    Let  my  death 
Define  life  nothing  but  a  courtiers  breath.  85 

Nothing  is  made  of  nought,  of  all  things  made 
Their  abstract  being  a  dreame  but  of  a  shade. 
He  not  complaine  to  earth  yet,  but  to  heaven, 
And  (like  a  man)  look  upwards  even  in  death. 
And  if  Vespasian  thought  in  majestic  9° 

An  Emperour  might  die  standing,  why  not  I  ? 

She  offers  to  help  him. 
Nay,  without  help,  in  which  I  will  exceed  him ; 
For  he  died  splinted  with  his  chamber  groomes. 
Prop  me,  true  sword,  as  thou  hast  ever  done  ! 
The  equall  thought  I  beare  of  life  and  death         95 
Shall  make  me  faint  on  no  side ;   I  am  up. 
Here,  like  a  Roman  statue,  I  will  stand 

90—93   And  if  .    .    .  groomes.    A  omits. 

SAe  offers  to  help  him.     Inserted  before  95  in  B.    A  omits. 


Scene  IV.]  BUS;0^  flD'^mboiSl  137 

Till  death  hath  made  me  marble.    O  my  fame 
Live  in  despight  of  murther  !   take  thy  wings 
And  haste  thee  where  the  gray-ey'd  morn  per- 
fumes lOO 
Her  rosie  chariot  with  Sabaean  spices  ! 
Fly  where  the  evening  from  th'Iberean  vales 
Takes  on  her  swarthy  shoulders  Heccate 
Crown'd  with  a  grove  of  oakes  !  flie  where  men 

feele 
The  burning  axeltree  ;  and  those  that  suffer        105 
Beneath  the  chariot  of  the  snowy  Beare  : 
And  tell  them  all  that   D'Ambois  now  is  hast- 
ing 
To  the  eternall  dwellers ;   that  a  thunder 
Of  all  their  sighes  together  (for  their  frailties 
Beheld  in  me)  may  quit  my  worthlesse  fall  no 

With  a  fit  volley  for  my  funerall. 
Umb.   Fri.   Forgive  thy  murtherers. 
Buss.  I  forgive  them  all ; 

And  you,  my  lord,  their  fautor  ;   for  true  signe 
Of  which  unfain'd  remission,  take  my  sword  ; 
Take  it,  and  onely  give  it  motion,  115 

And  it  shall  finde  the  way  to  victory 
By  his  owne  brightnesse,  and  th'inherent  valour 
My  fight    hath    still'd  into't   with    charmes  of 

spirit. 
Now  let  me  pray  you  that  my  weighty  bloud, 

119   Noiv.    A,  And. 


138  115u00^  SD'^mboig  [act  v. 

Laid  in  one  scale  of  your  impertiall  spleene,        120 
May  sway  the  forfeit  of  my  worthy  love 
Waid  in  the  other :   and  be  reconcil'd 
With  all  forgivenesse  to  your  matchlesse  wife. 
Tarn.    Forgive  thou   me,  deare  servant,  and 

this  hand 
That  lead  thy  life  to  this  unworthy  end;  125 

Forgive  it  for  the  bloud  with  which  'tis  stain'd, 
In  which  I  writ  the  summons  of  thy  death  — 
The  forced  summons  —  by  this  bleeding  wound. 
By  this  here  in  my  bosome,  and  by  this 
That  makes   me   hold  up   both  my  hands  em- 

brew'd  130 

For  thy  deare  pardon. 

Buss.  O,  my  heart  is  broken. 

Fate  nor  these   murtherers,  Monsieur  nor  the 

Guise, 
Have  any  glory  in  my  death,  but  this. 
This  killing  spectacle,  this  prodigie. 
My  sunne   is    turn'd    to    blood,   in    whose    red 

beams  135 

Pindus  and  Ossa  (hid  in  drifts  of  snow 
Laid  on  my  heart  and  liver),  from  their  veines 
Melt,  like  two  hungry  torrents  eating  rocks. 
Into  the  ocean  of  all  humane  life. 
And  make  it  bitter,  only  with  my  bloud.  140 

O  fraile  condition  of  strength,  valour,  vertue 

135  in.    A,  gainst.  136  drifti  of.    A,  endless. 


Scene  IV.]  W\l&&^  W ^m\iOi&  1 39 

In  me  (like  warning  fire  upon  the  top 
Of  some  steepe  beacon,  on  a  steeper  hill) 
Made  to  expresse  it  :   like  a  falling  starre 
Silently  glanc't,  that  like  a  thunderbolt  HS 

Look't  to  have  struck,  and  shook  the  firmament ! 

Moniur. 
Umb.  Fri.   Farewell !  brave  reliques  of  a  com- 
pleat  man. 
Look  up,  and  see  thy  spirit  made  a  starre. 
Joine    flames   with    Hercules,   and   when    thou 

set'st 
Thy  radiant  forehead  in  the  firmament,  150 

Make   the   vast    chrystall    crack   with    thy    re- 
ceipt ; 
Spread  to  a  world  of  fire,  and  the  aged  skie 
Cheere  with  new  sparks  of  old  humanity. 
\_To  Montsurry.'\   Son  of  the    earth,   whom    my 
unrested  soule 

146  struck.    Emend,  ed.  ;   Qq,  stuck.     Moritur.     A   omits. 
147-153    Fareivell  .    .    .    humanity.     These  lines  are  placed  by 

A  at  the  close  of  the  Scene,  and  are  preceded  by  three  lines  which 
B  omits  :  — 

My  terrors  are  strook  inward,  and  no  more 
My  pennance  will  allow  they  shall  enforce 
Earthly  afflictions  but  upon  my  selfe. 

147  reliques.    A,  relicts. 

149  yoine  flames  ivith  Hercules.    So  in  A  ;   B,  Jove  flames  with 
her  rules. 

151    chrystall.    A,  continent. 

154  Son   .    .    .   soule.    Before  this  line  B  has  Frier. 


14°  515u0si^  SD'^ntbois;  [act  v. 

Rues  t'have  begotten  in  the  faith  of  heaven,        155 
Assay  to  gratulate  and  pacific 
The  soule  fled  from  this  worthy  by  performing 
The  Christian  reconcilement  he  besought 
Betwixt  thee  and  thy  lady  ;  let  her  wounds, 
Manlessly  digg'd  in  her,  be  eas'd  and  cur'd  160 

With  balme  of  thine  owne  teares  ;  or  be  assur'd 
Never  to  rest  free  from  my  haunt  and  horror. 

Mont.  See  howshe  merits  this, still  kneeling  by, 
And  mourning  his  fall,  more  than  her  own  fault  ! 

Umb.Fri.  Remove,dearedaughter,and  content 
thy  husband  :  165 

So  piety  wills  thee,  and  thy  servants  peace. 

Tarn.   O  wretched  piety,  that  art  so  distract 
In  thine  owne  constancie,  and  in  thy  right 
Must  be  unrighteous.    If  I  right  my  friend, 
I  wrong  my  husband  ;   if  his  wrong  I  shunne,     170 
The  duty  of  my  friend  I  leave  undone. 
Ill  playes  on  both  sides  ;   here  and  there  it  riseth ; 
No  place,  no  good,  so  good,  but  ill  compriseth. 
O  had  I  never  married  but  for  forme  ; 
Never  vow'd  faith  but  purpos'd  to  deceive  ;         175 

155  Rues  .    .    .    hea-ven.    After  this  line  A  inserts  :  — 

Since  thy  revengeful!  spirit  hath  rejected 
The  charitie  it  commands,  and  the  remission 
To  serve  and  worship  the  blind  rage  of  bloud. 

163   kneeling.   A,  sitting. 

173   No  place  .    .    .   compriseth.    After  this  line  A  inserts  :  — 

My  soule  more  scruple  breeds  than  my  bloud  sinne, 
Vertue  imposeth  more  than  any  stepdame. 


Scene  IV.]  )&U&&^  W 9imh0i&  H^ 

Never  made  conscience  of  any  sinne, 
But  clok't  it  privately  and  made  it  common  ; 
Nor  never  honour'd  beene  in  bloud  or  mind  ; 
Happy  had  I  beene  then,  as  others  are 
Of  the  Hke  licence  ;   I  had  then  beene  honour'd,  180 
Liv'd  without  envie ;   custome  had  benumb'd 
All  sense  of  scruple  and  all  note  of  frailty  ; 
My   fame  had  beene   untouch'd,  my   heart   un- 
broken : 
But  (shunning  all)  I  strike  on  all  offence. 
O  husband  !   deare  friend  !    O  my  conscience  !    185 
Mons.   Come,  let's  away  ;   my  sences  are  not 
proofe 
Against  those  plaints. 

Exeunt  Guise,  Mon  [sieur  above^  .  Z)'  Ambois 
is  borne  off. 
Mont.   I  must  not  yeeld  to  pity,  nor  to  love 
So  servile  and  so  trayterous  :    cease,  my  bloud, 
To  wrastle  with  my  honour,  fame,  and  judgement.  190 
Away  !    forsake  my  house  ;    forbeare  complaints 
Where  thou  hast  bred  them :  here  all  things  [are] 

full 
Of  their  owne   shame  and  sorrow — leave  my 
house. 
Tam.  Sweet  lord,  forgive  me,and  I  will  begone; 
And  till  these  wounds  (that  never  balme  shall  close  195 

186-187    Come  .    .    .   plaints.    A  omits. 
192   \ari\.    Added  by  Dilke  ;    Qq  omit. 


142  y&vi&&^'SS>'^mhois  [actv. 

Till  death  hath  enterd  at  them,  so  I  love  them, 
Being  opened  by  your  hands)  by  death  be  cur'd, 
I  never  more  will  grieve  you  with  my  sight ; 
Never  endure  that  any  roofe  shall  part 
Mine  eyes  and  heaven  ;   but  to  the  open  deserts 200 
(Like  to  a  hunted  tygres)  I  will  flie, 
Eating  my  heart,  shunning  the  steps  of  men, 
And  look  on  no  side  till  I  be  arriv'd. 

Mont.   I  doe  forgive  thee,  and  upon  my  knees 
(With  hands  held  up  to  heaven)  wish  that  mine 

honour  205 

Would  suffer  reconcilement  to  my  love  : 
But,  since  it  will  not,  honour  never  serve 
My  love  with  flourishing  object,  till  it  sterve  ! 
And  as  this  taper,  though  it  upwards  look. 
Downwards   must  needs    consume,  so  let  our 

love  !  ^10 

As,  having  lost  his  hony,  the  sweet  taste 
Runnes  into  savour,  and  will  needs  retaine 
A  spice  of  his  first  parents,  till  (like  life) 
It  sees  and  dies,  so  let  our  love  !   and,  lastly. 
As  when  the  flame  is  suffer'd  to  look  up  215 

It    keepes    his    luster,   but    being    thus    turn'd 

downe 
(His  naturall  course  of  usefull  light  inverted) 
His  owne  stuffe  puts  it  out,  so  let  our  love  ! 

196  enterd.    A  ;   B,  enterr'd.  201   a.    A  omits. 


Scene  IV.]  )15U00^  W^WihoiS  143 

Now  turne  from  me,  as  here  I  turne  from  thee  ; 
And  may  both  points  of  heavens  strait  axeltree  220 
Conjoyne  in  one,  before  thy  selfe  and  me  ! 

Exeunt  severally. 


Finis  Actus  ^inti  ^  Ultimi. 


EPILOGUE 

With  many  hands  you  have  scene  D'Ambois 

slaine  ; 
Yet  by  your  grace  he  may  revive  againe, 
And  every  day  grow  stronger  in  his  skill 
To  please,  as  we  presume  he  is  in  will. 
The  best  deserving  actors  of  the  time 
Had  their  ascents,  and  by  degrees  did  clime 
To  their  full  height,  a  place  to  studie  due. 
To  make  him  tread  in  their  path  lies  in  you  ; 
Hee'le  not  forget  his  makers,  but  still  prove 
His  thankfulnesse,  as  you  encrease  your  love. 

Epilogue.    Not  found  in  A. 


FINIS. 


l^otejGf  to  2Bu^3^p  SD'^mfioi^ 

For  the  meaning  of  single  ivords  see  the  Glossary. 

Prologue.  The  allusions  in  these  lines  can  be  only  partially 
explained.  The  play  had  evidently  been  performed,  not  long  before 
1641,  by  a  company  which  had  not  possessed  original  acting  rights 
in  it.  The  performance  had  been  successful  (cf.  11.  3-4  "  the 
grace  of  late  It  did  receive  "),  and  the  "  King's  men,"  while  not 
claiming  a  monopoly  in  it,  nor  seeking  to  detract  from  their  rivals' 
merits,  felt  bound  to  revive  the  play  on  their  own  account,  lest 
they  should  seem  to  be  letting  their  claim  go  by  default.  It  is 
possible  that  in  11.  11-12,  they  refer  to  a  performance  that  in 
vindication  of  this  claim  they  had  given  at  Court,  while,  as  further 
evidence  of  their  priority  of  interest,  they  remind  the  audience  of 
the  actors  belonging  to  the  company  who  had  appeared  in  the  title- 
role.  Nathaniel  Field  (1.  15),  born  in  1587,  had  as  a  boy  been 
one  of  the  "  Children  of  the  Queen's  Revels,"  and  had  performed  in 
Jonson's  Cynthia^  Re-vels,  1 600,  and  Poetaster,  1601.  He  seems 
to  have  joined  the  King's  players  soon  after  1614,  and  his  name 
appears  in  the  list  of  "  the  principall  actors  in  all  these  playes  " 
prefixed  to  the  first  Shakespearean  Folio  of  1623.  Not  long  after 
this  period,  Field,  who  by  his  JVoman  is  a  Weathercock  (1612) 
and  his  Amends  for  Ladies  ( 1 6 1 8 )  had  made  a  reputation  as  a 
dramatist  as  well  as  an  actor,  is  believed  to  have  retired  from  the 
stage,  though  he  lived  till  1633.  ^^j  however,  he  did  not 
appear  as  Bussy  till  after  16 14,  when  the  play  had  already  been 
at  least  seven  years,  perhaps  considerably  longer,  on  the  boards,  it 
can  scarcely  be  said  with  truth  that  his  ' '  action  first  did  give  it 
name"  (1.  16).  His  successor  in  the  part,  whom  the  "gray 
beard  "  (1.  18)  of  advancing  years  had  now  disqualified,  cannot  be 
identified  ;  but  the  "  third  man  "  (1.  21 )  is  probably  Ilyard  Swans- 
ton,  who,  according  to  Fleay  {Biog.  Chron.  of  Drama,  vol.  i, 
p.  60),  was  one  of  the  "  King's  men  "  from  1625  to  1642.    His 


146  j^otes 

impersonation  of  Bussy  is  favourably  referred  to  by  Edmund  Gayton 
in  his  Festi-vous  Notes  upon  Don  fixate  (1654),  p.  25,  and  his 
previous  role  of  "Richard"  (1.  23)  may  have  been  that  of 
Ricardo  in  Massinger's  Picture,  vi-hich  he  had  played  in  1629 
(cf.  Phelps,  Geo.  Chap.  p.  125).  The  earlier  editors  thought  that 
Charles  Hart  was  here  alluded  to,  but  Wright  in  his  Historia  His- 
trionica  states  it  was  the  part  of  the  Duchess  in  Shirley's  Cardinal, 
licensed  1641,  that  first  gave  him  any  reputation.  Hence  he  can- 
not at  this  date  have  performed  Bussy  ;  his  fame  in  the  part  was 
made  after  the  Restoration  (cf.  Introduction,  p.  xxv). 

5-6,  1-33.  Fortune  .  .  .  port.  This  opening  speech  of 
Bussy  illustrates  the  difficult  compression  of  Chapman's  style,  and 
the  diversion  of  his  thought  from  strictly  logical  sequence  by  his 
excessive  use  of  simile.  He  begins  (11.  1-4)  by  emphasising  the 
paradoxical  character  of  human  affairs,  in  which  only  those  escape 
poverty  who  are  abnormal,  while  it  is  among  the  necessitous  that 
worthily  typical  representatives  of  the  race  must  be  sought.  The 
former  class,  under  the  designation  of"  great  men,"  are  then  (after 
a  parenthetical  comparison  with  cedars  waxing  amidst  tempests) 
likened  to  statuaries  who  are  satisfied  if  the  exterior  of  the  Colossus 
they  are  creating  is  sufficiently  imposing  5  they  are  then  (by  an 
awkward  transition  of  the  imagery)  likened  to  the  statues  themselves 
(1.  15)  "  heroique  ' '  in  form  but  ' '  morter,  flint,  and  lead  ' '  within. 
Chapman's  meaning  is  here  obvious  enough,  but  it  is  a  singular 
canon  of  aesthetics  that  estimates  the  worth  of  a  statue  by  the  mate- 
rials out  of  which  it  is  made.  In  1.  18  a  new  thought  is  started, 
that  of  the  transitoriness  of  life,  and  the  perishable  nature  of  its 
gifts,  and  as  the  ocean-voyager  needs  a  stay-at-home  pilot  to  steer 
him  safely  into  port,  so  the  adventurer  in  "  the  waves  of  glassie 
glory  "  (11.  29-30)  is  bidden  look  to  "  vertue  "  for  guidance  to  his 
desired  haven  —  not  exactly  the  conclusion  to  be  expected  from  the 
opening  lines  of  the  speech. 

6,  23.  To  put  a  girdle  .  .  .  world.  The  editors  all 
compare  Mid.  Night's  Dream,  i,  i,  175,  which  Chapman  prob- 
ably had  in  mind. 

7,  34.  in  numerous  state.  A  play  of  words,  apparently,  on 
two  senses  of  the  phrase  :  ( i )  the  series  of  numbers,  (2)  a  populous 
kingdom. 


i^otesi  147 

8,59.  gurmundist.  The  N.E.D.  quotes  no  other  exam- 
ple of  the  form  "  gurmundist  "  for  "  gurmond  "  =:  "  gourmand." 

9,  86-87.  set  my  looks  In  an  eternall  brake:  keep 
my  countenance  perpetually  immoveable.  A  "brake"  is  a  piece 
of  framework  for  holding  something  steady. 

15,  187.  I  am  a  poet.  This  is  historically  true.  A  poem  of 
some  length,  Stances  faictes  par  M.  de  Bussy,  is  quoted  byjoubert 
in  his  Bussy  D  ^  Amboise,  pp.  205-09. 

15,  194-95.  chaine  And  velvet  jacket:  the  symbols 
of  a  steward's  office. 

16,  207.  his  woodden  dagger.  The  Elizabethan  jester 
carried  the  wooden  dagger  or  sword,  which  was  often  one  of  the 
properties  of  the  "  Vice  "  in  the  later  Moralities  and  the  Interludes. 

17,  Pyra.  Though  this  character  is  mentioned  here  and  else- 
where among  the  Dramatis  Persona^  she  takes  no  part  in  the  dia- 
logue. 

17,  2.  that  English  virgin:  apparently  Annable,  who 
is  the  Duchess  of  Guise's  lady-in-waiting  (cf.  in,  2,  234-40). 

18,  15.    what's  that  to  :    what  has  that  to  do  with. 

18,  16-27.  Assure  you  .  .  .  confusion  to  it.  With 
this  encomium  on  Elizabeth  and  her  Court  compare  Crequi's  ac- 
count of  Byron's  compliments  to  the  gueen  (^Byron''s  Corispiracie, 
IV,    i). 

19,  36.    Which  we  must  not  affect :   which  change, 

however,  we  must  not  desire  to  take  place. 

19.  39-43-  No  question  ...  as  they.  The  trav- 
elled Englishman's  affectation  of  foreign  attire  is  a  stock  theme  of 
Elizabethan  satire.      Cf.  (e.  g.)  Merch.  of  Ven.  i,  2,  78-81. 

19,  44.  travell.  A  pun  on  the  two  senses,  (i)  journey, 
(2)  labour,  the  latter  of  which  is  now  distinguished  by  the  spelling 
"travail." 

21,  85.  Tis  leape  yeare.  F.  G.  Fleay  {Biog.  Chron. 
I,  59)  considers  that  this  refers  "to  the  date  of  production,  as 
Bussy's  introduction  at  Court  was  in  1569,  not  a  Leap  Year,"  and 
that  it  ' '  fixes  the  time  of  representation  to  1 604. ' '  See  Introduc- 
tion. 

22,  no.  the  groome-porters.  Chapman  here  trans- 
fers to  the  French  Court  an  official  peculiar  to  the  English  Royal 


148  jl5ote0 

Household  till  his  abolition  under  George  III.  The  function  of 
the  groom-porter  was  to  furnish  cards  and  dice  for  all  gaming  at 
Court,  and  to  decide  disputes  arising  at  play. 

23,  123.  the  guiserd.  The  play  on  words  here  is  not 
clear  J  "guiserd"  may  be  a  variant  of  "gizzard,"  in  which  case 
it  would  mean  the  Duke's  throat.  This  is  more  probable  than  a 
"jingling  allusion  ...  to  goose-herd  or  gozzard,"  which  Dilke 
suggests. 

23,  124.   are  you  blind  of  that  side:  unguarded  and 

assailable  in  that  direction. 

23,  130.  Accius  Naevius  :  the  augur  who  cut  a  whet- 
stone in  pieces  in  presence  of  Tarquinius  Priscus. 

23)  133-  mate:  either  match  or  put  doivn,  o-vercome.  The 
latter  sense  is  more  probable,  with  a  punning  allusion  to  the  use  of 
the  word  in  chess,  at  which  Guise  seems  to  be  engaged  with  the 
King.    Cf.  1.  184. 

22^  135-36.  of  the  new  edition  :  of  the  recent  creation. 
An  allusion  to  the  lavish  creation  of  knights  by  James,  shortly  after 
his  accession. 

24,  141-42.  y'ave  cut  too  many  throats.  An  allu- 
sion to  Guise's  share  in  the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew.  Con- 
trast the  references  to  the  episode  in  The  Re-venge,  11,  i,  198— 
234. 

24,  149.  the  Knights  ward.  Dilke  thought  that  the 
allusion  here  was  to  the  "  poor  knights  of  Windsor,"  but  it  really 
refers  to  a  part  of  the  "  Counter"  prison  in  London.  Cf.  East- 
ivard  Hoe,  v,  2,  54,  where  Wolf  says  of  Sir  Petronel  Flash,  "  The 
knight  will  i'  the  Knights- Ward,  doe  what  we  can,  sir."  (See 
Schelling's  note. ) 

24,  163-64.  out  a  th'  presence  :  outside  the  presence  of 
the  Sovereign. 

25,  168.  like  a  rush.  An  allusion  to  the  custom,  still 
prevalent  in  Chapman's  time,  of  strewing  floors  with  rushes. 

25,  178-79.  of  the  place  The  divers  frames.  An  ob- 
scure expression,  which  may  mean  :  the  varied  character  in  different 
places  of  the  bed  of  the  sea. 

25,  180-83.  Bristled  .  .  .  fome.  The  imagery  in  these 
lines  also  presents  difficulty.    D' Ambois's  heart  is  likened  to  the  sea, 


which,  once  swollen  into  billows,  will  not  sink  into  its  original  calm 
till  it  is  overspread  by  the  crown  or  sheet  of  foam  which  the  waves, 
after  their  subsidence,  leave  behind. 

25,  184.  You  have  the  mate.  Cf.  textual  note  on  i,  i, 
153,  and  note  on  23,  133,  P-  148. 

26,  208.  a  blanquet.  To  toss  D' Ambois  in,  as  is  plain  from 
1.  212. 

26,  211.    Carrie  it  cleane  :  comes  off  easily  superior. 

27,  237-38.  Your  descants  .  .  .  this  ground.  There 
is  a  complicated  play  on  words  here.  Descant  in  music  is  the  melo- 
dious accompaniment  to  a  simple  theme,  the  plainsovg  or  ground. 
Hence  arises  the  derived  meaning,  a  -variation  on  any  theme,  a 
comment,  often  of  a  censorious  kind.  This,  as  well  as  the  original 
meaning,  is  implied  here,  while  ground  has,  of  course,  its  usual  as 
well  as  its  technical  sense. 

28,  243-44.    He  be  your  ghost  to  haunt  you.    May 

this  be  an  early  reference  to  Banquo's  ghost  ?  Macbeth  was  prob- 
ably produced  in  1606,  the  year  before  Bussy  D^ Ambois  was 
printed. 

28,  261.  musk-cats  :  ci-vet-cats,  and  hence,  scented  persons, 
fops. 

28,  262.  this  priviledge.  The  royal  presence-chamber, 
though  the  King  has  left  it,  is  still  regarded  as  inviolable. 

29.  Henry,  Guise,  Montsurry  and  Attendants.  The 

Qq  of  1607  and  1608,  instead  of  Montsurry  and  Attendants,  read 
Beaumond,  Nuncius.  Nuncius  is  a  mistake,  as  he  does  not  enter  till 
after  1.  24.  Beaumond  is  evidently  a  courtier,  who  speaks  11.  105- 
loj  {Such  a  life  .  .  .  of  men),  and  who  goes  out  with  the  King 
after  1.  206.  In  1 641  and  later  Qq  it  was  apparently  thought  de- 
sirable to  leave  out  this  "  single-speech  "  character  and  transfer  his 
words  to  Montsurry  ;  but  by  an  oversight  Beau,  was  left  prefixed 
to  the  second  half  of  1.  105,  and  the  S.  D.,  Exit  Rex  cum  Beau., 
was  retained  after  1.  206.  The  editor  has  therefore  substituted 
Mont,  for  Beau,  in  either  case.  Montsurry  being  thus  present  at 
the  pardon  of  Bussy,  the  1641  and  later  Qq  leave  out  11.  1-50  of 
the  next  Scene  wherein  inter  alia  Montsurry  speaks  of  the  pardon 
as  yet  undecided,  and  Guise  enters  to  announce  it  to  him. 

Dilke  in  his  edition  in  1 8 14  thought  Beaumond  a  misprint  for 


150  JJotrs! 

Beaupre,  who  appears  in  other  scenes,  and  whom  he  took  to  be 
a  man,  instead  of  a  woman.  Hence  he  reads  Montsurry,  Beaupre 
and  Attendants  both  here  and  after  1.  206.  The  other  editors 
have  not  realized  that  there  is  any  discrepancy  to  be  explained. 

29,  12-13.  bruits  it  .  .  .  healthfull :  proclaims  it 
through  the  world  to  be  sound  and  wholesome. 

31,  51-52.  Pyrrho's  opinion  .  .  .  are  one.  A 
sweeping  generalisation,  which  cannot  be  accepted  as  an  interpre- 
tation of  the  doctrines  of  the  sceptical  philosopher  of  Elis. 

31,  54-58.  As  Hector  .  .  .  speak.  The  reference 
is  to  Iliad,  VII,  54  ff. ,  though  Hector  is  there  described  as  keeping 
back  the  Trojans  with  his  spear. 

32,  60.  Ript  up  the  quarrell  :  explained  the  cause  and 
origin  of  the  quarrel  (Dilke). 

32,  63-64.  conclude  The  others  dangers :  might  put 
an  end  to  the  risks  of  their  companions  by  making  their  single  com- 
bat cover  the  whole  quarrel.  Conclude  here  unites  the  Elizabethan 
sense  include  with  the  ordinary  m^zmn^ finish. 

32,  77-80.  And  then  .  .  .  never  kill.  An  antici- 
pation, as  Lamb  and  others  have  pointed  out,  of  Milton's  descrip- 
tion of  angelic  wounds,  Par.  Lost,  vi,  344—49. 

33,  84-87.  Thrice  pluckt  .  .  .  SCap't.  The  accu- 
mulation of  personal  pronouns  makes  the  interpretation  somewhat 
difficult  :  thrice  D'Ambois  plucked  at  it,  and  thrice  drew  on  tlirusts 
from  Barrisor  who  darted  hither  and  thither  like  flame,  and  contin- 
ued thrusting  as  D'Ambois  plucked  ;  yet,  incredible  to  relate,  the 
latter  escaped  injury. 

33)  9°-    only  made  more  horrid  -with  his  wound : 

Barrisor  being  only  rendered  fiercer  by  his  wound.  The  construc- 
tion is  loose,  as  grammatically  the  words  should  qualify  D'Ambois. 

33,  92.  redoubled  in  his  danger :  thrusting  himself 
into  danger  for  the  second  time.  For  this  peculiar  use  of  re- 
doubled cf.  1.  190,  "  on  my  knees  redoubled,"  and  note. 

33,  94.  Arden.  Probably  to  be  no  more  identified  here  with 
the  Warwickshire  district  of  this  name  than  in  As  You  Like  It. 
Ardennes  would  be  more  appropriate  on  a  Frenchman's  lips,  but  the 
district  belongs  to  the  realm  of  fancy  as  much  as  Armenia  in  1.  11 7. 

33>   97-    he  gan  to   nodde.    An  anacoluthon.     The  con- 


^otts  151 

struction  should  be  "begin  to  nodde  "  after  **I  have  seene  an 
oke  "  in  1.  94,  but  the  intervening  participial  clauses  produce  irregu- 
larity. Similarly  in  1.  1 01  "  he  fell  "  should  be  "  fall  "  and  "  hid  '* 
should  be  "  hide." 

33,  103-104.  Of  ten  set  .  .  .  Navarre.  The  war 
between  Henry  III  and  Henry  of  Navarre  continued  from  1587 
to  1589,  but  the  "  ten  set  battles  "  are  without  historical  founda- 
tion. 

34,  105.  [MontSUrry.]  See  note  on  stage  direction  at  be- 
ginning of  the  scene. 

34,  108.  felt  report  :  probably,  account  related  with  feel- 
ing. 

34,  121.    the  treasure  of  his  brow:  his  horn. 

34,  122.  shelter  of  a  tree.  Unicorns  were  supposed  to 
be  worsted  in  encounters  by  the'u-  adversaries  sheltering  behind  trees, 
in  which  they  impaled  themselves.  Spenser,  F,  i^n,  5,  10,  de- 
scribes how  a  lion  defeats  a  unicorn  by  this  stratagem.  Cf.  jful. 
Cas.  II,  I,  303-04. 

"He  loves  to  hear 
That  unicorns  may  be  betray'd  with  trees." 

34,  128.    th'  tw'  other,  i.  e.  Pyrrhot  and  Melynell. 

35,  130.  hunt  Honour  at  the  view.  A  rare  metaphor- 
ical application  of  the  technical  phrase,  "  hunt  at  the  view." 

35.  [Exit  Nuntius.]  The  editor  has  inserted  this,  as  the 
Qq  do  not  indicate  when  the  Nuncius  departs,  and,  with  the  en- 
trance of  Bussy,  there  is  no  further  need  of  him.  bare  :  bare- 
headed. 

35,  141-44.   If  ever  Nature  .  .   .  one.    Difficult  lines, 

which  may  be  paraphrased  :  if  ever  Nature's  bond  maintained  its 
strength,  when  subjected  to  the  severe  test  of  bridging  the  distance 
between  sovereign  and  subject,  both  sprung  from  the  same  seed, 
now  prove  that  in  elevated  stations  she  can  show  her  nobility, 

36,  156.    that,  i.  e.  positive  law. 

36,    157.    prefixing:  settling  beforehand. 

36,  164.  this  fact,  though  of  justice :  this  action, 
though  done  in  the  name  of  justice. 

37,  170.    he,  i.  e.  his  enemy. 

37>   175-76-    which   .   ,   .   him:    which  is  more  precious 


152  ilioteg 

than  a  human  life,  which  is  inferior  in  value  to  it,  and  which  was 
rightly  forfeited  to  him  through  ill-doing. 

37,  190.  This  is  a  grace.  The  grace  or  boon  for  which 
Bussy  asks  is  explained  by  him  in  11.  193-203.  "This"  usually 
refers  to  something  that  has  gone  before,  on  my  kneeS  re- 
doubled :  going  down  for  the  second  time  on  my  knees —  from 
which  he  had  risen  after  1.  179. 

37,  192.     And  shall,  i.  e.  And  which  grace  shall. 

38,  198-204.  Let  me  .  .  .  King  indeed.  With  this 
assertion  of  man's  original  "Kingship"  cf.  The  Gentleman 
Usher ^  V,  I. 

And  what's  a  prince  >.     Had  all  been  virtuous  men. 
There  never  had  been  prince  upon  the  earth. 
And  so  no  subject :   all  men  had  been  princes. 
A  virtuous  man  is  subject  to  no  prince, 
But  to  his  soul  and  honour. 

38.  [Exit  Rex  cum  Montsurry.]  See  note  on  stage 
direction  at  beginning  of  this  scene. 

40,  18.  Although  she  be  my  ante.  From  these  words 
we  learn  that  Beaupre  is  niece  to  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Guise. 
Compare  iii,  ii,  188,  and  the  reference  to  "  my  lady,  your  niece  " 
in  the  passage  in  gq  1607  and  1608  quoted  in  the  textual  note  on 
III,  ii,  233. 

42,  49.  an  agent  for  my  bloud  :  an  instrument  in  the 
satisfaction  of  my  passions. 

42,  57-58.  his  retiring  .  .  .  aspiring :  his  retirement 
to  a  position  of  inferiority  will  satisfy  my  aspirations. 

43,  70-71.  Wise  wives  .  .  .  friend.  Tamyra  iron- 
ically keeps  up  the  metaphor  of  the  "  two  strings"  in  1.  66,  and 
plays  upon  the  double  senses  of  "  firm  "  and  "  loose  "  in  archery 
and  morals. 

44,  95.  as  good  cheap  as  it :  literally,  on  as  advanta- 
geous terms  as  ;  hence,  with  as  little  effort  as,  as  readily  as. 

45,  io8-io.    Whose    there   .    .    .    quality.    Cf.   All 

Fools,  II,  I,  p.  67  (Phelps). 

While  I  sit  like  a  well-taught  writing-woman 
Turning  her  eyes  upon  some  work  or  picture, 
Read  in  a  book,  or  take  a  feigned  nap. 
While  her  kind  lady  takes  one  to  her  lap. 


ilioteg  153 

45,  117.  oportunities  :  importunities,  which  Dilke  wished 
to  substitute.  But  ' '  opportunity  ' '  was  used  in  this  sense.  Cf.  Mer. 
Wi-v.  IVi/id.  in,  4,  20-2. 

"  Yet  seeke  my  Fathers  love,  still  seeke  it,  sir ; 
If  opportunity  and  humblest  suite 
Cannot  attaine  it,  why  then  harke  you  hither." 

45,  I2I-I22.  as  to  their  pardons  .  .  ,  Parlia- 
ments. The  meaning  appears  to  be  :  as  the  exceptions  they  make, 
after  Parliaments  have  ceased  to  sit,  are  to  the  pardons  they  have 
granted. 

46,  129.    part'st  with  victory:  comest  off  victoriously. 

48,  165.  the  Center:  the  unmoved  central  point  of  the 
earth,  according  to  the  Ptolemaic  system. 

49,  182.  cast  .  .  .  beene  :  undress,  as  if  I  had  never 
been  watching  here.  Tamyra  here  determines  to  go  to  bed,  but 
afterwards  (1.  242)  she  returns. 

49,  198.  the  first  orbe  move.  An  allusion  to  the 
Primum  Mobile,  which,  in  the  Ptolemaic  system,  was  the  tenth 
sphere  "  of  a  most  pure  and  cleare  substance  and  without  starres," 
which  revolved  in  twenty-four  hours,  and  carried  round  in  its  course 
all  the  inner  spheres. 

51,  231-32.  If  not  .  .  .  satisfi'd  :  if  she  is  not  given 
opportunity  to  dissemble  or  show  petulance,  she  is  not  satisfied  even 
if  she  gains  what  she  desires. 

56,  20-30.  Sin  .  .  .  troth.  A  characteristic  illustration 
of  how  one  simile  in  Chapman's  verse  begets  another,  with  little 
regard  for  logical  sequence.  The  "  shadow es  "  with  which  sin 
frightens  us  are  first  compared  to  the  imaginary  creatures  into  which 
fancy  shapes  the  clouds  ;  then  sin  itself  ( relegated  from  an  active  to 
a  passive  part)  is  likened  not  to  a  pure  creation  of  the  fancy,  but 
to  an  exaggerated  picture  of  a  real  monster  displayed  by  *'  policy," 
i.  e.  the  craft  which  seeks  to  debar  men  from  their  desires. 

For  the  custom  of  exhibiting  a  rude  painting  of  a  curiosity,  as  a 
decoy  to  sightseers,  cf.  T/ie  Tempest,  11,  2,  29-31,  "Were  I  in 
England  now  .  .  .  and  had  but  this  fish  painted,  not  a  holiday  fool 
there  but  would  give  a  piece  of  silver." 

56,  21.  in  his  truest  valour:  if  his  valour  be  rightly 
estimated. 


154  #Ote0 

56,  33-  our  three  powers.  The  vegetative,  sensitive,  and 
reasoning  faculties. 

56-57,  40-43.  Nor  shall  .  .  ,  wings.  Tamyra's 
"  fame,"  which  in  1.  38  has  been  spoken  of  as  a  "Jewell,"  is  now 
likened  to  a  fabulous  winged  creature  which  is  accorded  free  flight. 

57,  44.     It   rests  as :  the  secret  remains  as  inviolable  as  if. 

58,  69-71.  layes  .  .  .  oppos'd.  I  am  indebted  to  Dr. 
J.  A.  H.  Murray  for  the  following  interpretation  of  this  passage  : 
[Nature]  brings  our  powers  into  accordance  with  its  own  will  or 
working,  just  as  the  stone  (laid  by  the  builder)  should  be  apposed 
or  brought  into  accord  with  the  line,  not  the  line  (which  is 
straight  and  not  to  be  shifted)  made  to  lie  along  the  stone. 

60,    119.    greatnesse  with  him  :  high  place  in  his  favour. 

62,  13.  Boots  of  hay-ropes.  Bands  of  hay  were  some- 
times wrapped  round  the  legs,  to  serve  instead  of  boots.  Cf.  Ben 
Jonson's  E-very  Man  in  his  Humour,  i,  2.  Step.  But  I  have  no 
boots  .  .  .  Brainivorm.  Why  a  fine  wisp  of  hay  roll' d  hard,  Mas- 
ter Stephen. 

62,  18.  a  redhair'd  man:  a  deceiver,  traitor;  so  called 
from  the  representation  of  Judas  in  tapestries,  and  probably  on  the 
stage  of  the  Miracle  plays,  with  red  hair. 

63>   23.    put  them  up  :  start  them  from  their  cover. 

63,  28.  That  .  .  .  clapdish  :  That  keeps  regal  state, 
though  sprung  from  beggary.  A  clapdish  was  a  wooden  dish  with 
a  lid,  carried  by  beggars  and  lepers,  which  they  clapped  to  announce 
their  approach. 

63,  46.  Venting  .  .  .  Hebrew :  putting  the  best  pro- 
duct of  his  livings  to  the  reverse  of  its  intended  use.  Hebrew  is  read 
backwards. 

65,  69.  that  popular  purple.  An  allusion  to  the  Duke's 
robe,  which  was  of  royal  purple,  to  impress  the  populace. 

65,  76.  He's  noblier  borne,  "Noblier"  has  been  here 
substituted  for  "  nobly."  The  parallel  phrases  in  the  preceding 
lines  are  all  comparatives,  "better,"  "more,"  "greater,"  and 
Bussy,  in  the  second  half  of  this  line,  cannot  mean  to  deny  that 
Guise  is  of  noble  birth. 

65,  79.  Cardinall  of  Ambois.  The  Cardinal  Georges 
d'Amboise  was  in  reality  Bussy 's  great-uncle. 


j|iote0  155 

66,   84.    great   in    faction :  active   in   promoting   leagues. 

66,  86-87.  Be  a  duke  .  .  .  field.  A  play,  of  course, 
on  the  original  meaning  of  Duke,  as  Dux  or  leader. 

67,  loS.  the  Hermean  rod  :  the  caduceus  or  rod  of 
Hermes,  with  which  he  parted  two  fighting  serpents,  whereupon 
they  embraced  and  stuck  to  the  rod. 

69,  144-47.  and  as  this  .  .  .  pride.  An  allusion  to 
the  myth  of  the  giant  Typhoeus  who,  according  to  one  version,  was 
created  by  Hera  alone,  in  anger  at  the  birth  of  Pallas  from  the  head 
of  Zeus.  He  was  killed  by  Zeus  with  a  flash  of  lightning,  and  was 
buried  in  Tartarus  under  Mt.  Etna. 

69,  154.  make  scapes  to  please  advantage:  com- 
mit escapades,  and  thereby  give  points  against  themselves. 

69,  155-56.  women  .  .  .  candels :  women  who  make 
the  worst  accomplices  to  men. 

70,  157.    their  women  :  their  waiting-women. 

71,  187-88.  as  far  as  an  unkle  may.  Guise  is  uncle  to 
the  lady  Beaupre.    Cf.  note  on  11,  z,  18. 

74,  243-44.  Come  .  .  .  courted.  These  words  are 
whispered  by  Monsieur  to  Pero.  The  rest  of  his  speech  is  spoken 
aloud,  as  if  in  disgust  at  the  rejection  of  advances  made  by  him  to 
Pero. 

74,  244.    dry  palm  :  a  sign  of  chastity. 

77,  311.    I  have  the  blind  side  of:  I  can  play  on  the 

weakness  of. 

78,  325.  engag'd  in  some  sure  plot :  involved  in  the 
toils  of  some  plot  securely  laid  against  him. 

78,  330.  Train  .  .  .  wreak:  allure  D'Ambois  within 
reach  of  his  revenge. 

80,  375.  angell  of  my  life:  an  allusion  to  the  tutelary 
genius.    For  a  similar  use  of  angel  cf.  Ant.  and  Chop.  11,  3 ,  21 . 

81,  383.  rais'd  without  a  circle.  If  a  necromancer, 
before  raising  a  spirit,  drew  a  circle  within  which  he  stood,  he  was 
secure  against  its  power. 

82,  406.    which   I  have  still  in  thought :  which  is 

always  with  me,  as  far  as  my  thoughts  are  concerned. 

84,  445-46.  to  force  .  .  .  estates.  With  the  punctu- 
ation adopted  And  .    .    .   throats  is  a  clause  parenthetically  inserted 


156  i]iote0 

in  the  main  statement,  and  the  meaning  is  :  to  get  possession  of  es- 
tates by  foreclosing  mortgages,  and  thus  destroying  their  owners.  The 
Qq  have  a  comma  after  possessions,  and  no  brackets  in  the  follow- 
ing line. 

84-85,  448-49.  quarrell  .  .  .  Ajax.  A  reference  to  the 
well-known  episode  in  Sophocles'  Ajax. 

85,  453-  make  them  of  a  peece  :  make  them  complete. 

85,  464-66.  which  not  to  sooth  .  .  .  Thou  eat'st. 
An  anacoluthon. 

85,465.  And  glorifie  .  .  .  Hammon.  Probably  an  al- 
lusion to  the  adoration  of  Alexander  the  Great  as  the  son  of  Jupiter 
Ammon  by  the  priests  of  this  originally  .Ethiopian  deity,  at  Thebes 
in  Upper  Egypt,  in  B.  C.  331. 

86,  473.  like  a  scrich-owie  sing.  The  screech  of  the 
owl  was  supposed  to  be  an  omen  of  death  to  the  hearer.  Cf.  Mac- 
beth, 11,  2,  3-4. 

87,  500.  to  that  wall  :  at  the  distance  of  that  wall. 

87,  507.  her  breathing  rock.  Dilke  explains  this  as 
"  the  distaff  from  whence  she  draws  the  thread  of  life,"  but  though 
this  is  evidently  the  meaning  required,  it  is  difficult  to  extract  it  from 
this  obscure  phrase. 

87,  510.  Defil'd  .  .  ,  SOule.  Another  instance  of  con- 
fused imagery,  which  yields  no  satisfactory  meaning. 

89,  28.     which,  sc.  time. 

90,35.     princely  mistresse  :  the  Duchess  of  Guise. 

90,  39.     Your  servant :  D'Ambois. 

90,  52.     in  high  formes  :  on  stools  of  disgrace. 
9i>  55-    great  eagles  beak.  Cf.  m,  2,  4. 

91,  57.  her  .  .  .  liver.  A  double  allusion,  as  Dilke  has 
pointed  out,  to  the  story  of  Prometheus,  and  to  the  conception  of 
the  liver  as  the  seat  of  the  emotions. 

92,77.    W^ith  a  traine  :  by  a  stratagem. 

93>  ^4-  gushing.  Used  here  transitively,  qualifying  laivs, 
and  governing  blood. 

93>  87.  bare  .  .  .  hammes:  the  uncovered  heads  and 
cringing  postures  of  sycophants. 

93,  9^-  Armenian  dragons.  Chapman  is  fond  of  locat- 
ing fabulous  monsters  in  Armenia.    Cf.  11,  I,  1 1 8-1 9. 


iliotesf  157 

94,  115.  almighty  JEther.  Probably  a  reminiscence  of 
Virgil,  Georg.  2,  325,  pater  omnipotens  ^tker. 

94,  120.  Nay,  they  are  two.  Monsieur,  while  saying 
this,  makes  two  horns  with  his  fingers. 

95,  126.    a  meere  Cynthia  :  a  perfect  moon-goddess. 

96,  138.    The   plague    of   Herod.    Cf.  Acts  xn,   23, 

"And  he  was  eaten  of  worms,  and  gave  up  the  ghost." 

98,  180.    thus,  with  his  fingers.    Cf.  note  on  1.  120. 

98,  181-83.  comes  .  .  .  slew^:  if  he  is  the  source  of  the 
blot  on  my  honour,  it  becomes  a  beauty,  not  a  blemish,  and  proves 
that  I  possess  the  same  innocence  that  caused  the  death  of. 

98,  183.  Chymaera.  A  fire-breathing  monster,  brought  up 
by  Amisodarus,  King  of  Caria.  She  was  slain  by  Bellerophon.  This 
Corinthian  prince,  to  purify  himself  from  a  murder  he  had  com- 
mitted, had  fled  to  the  court  of  Proetus  of  Argos,  whose  wife,  An- 
teia,  fell  in  love  with  him.  On  his  rejection  of  her  advances,  she 
made  false  accusations  against  him,  whereupon  Proetus  sent  him  to 
his  father-in-law,  lobates,  King  of  Lycia,  with  a  sealed  letter,  re- 
questing him  to  put  him  to  death.  lobates  sent  him  to  kill  Chimaera, 
thinking  he  would  be  certain  to  perish  in  the  attempt.  But  mounted 
on  the  winged  horse  Pegasus,  he  killed  her  from  on  high  with  his 
arrows. 

98,  183-84.  rescued  .  .  .  Peleon.  Peleus,  King  of  the 
Myrmidons,  during  a  visit  to  lolcus,  attracted  the  love  of  Astydameia, 
the  wife  of  Acastus.  On  his  rejection  of  her  proposals,  she  denounced 
him  falsely  to  her  husband,  who  took  him  to  hunt  wild  beasts  on 
Mount  Peleon,  and  when  he  fell  asleep  through  fatigue,  concealed 
his  sword,  and  left  him  alone  to  be  devoured.  But  he  was  saved  by 
Cheiron,  who  restored  him  his  sword. 

98,185.  the  chaste  Athenian  prince:  Hippolytus, 
son  of  Theseus  and  Hippolyta,  with  whom  his  step-mother  Phaedra 
fell  in  love.  On  his  rejection  of  her  advances,  she  accused  him  to 
Theseus,  at  whose  prayer  Poseidon  caused  his  destruction,  by  fright- 
ening his  horses,  when  he  was  driving  along  the  seacoast,  and  over- 
turning his  chariot.  Afterwards,  on  the  discovery  of  his  innocence, 
Asclepius  restored  him  to  the  upper  world. 

98,  187.     Egean.    So  the  Qq,  instead  of  "  Augean." 
98,  190.    where  thou  fear'st,  are  dreadfull:  Inspir- 
est  terror  even  in  those  of  whom  thou  art  afraid. 


158  j^otes; 

98-99,  192-94.    the  serpent  .  .  .  and  me.   A  curious 

application  of  the  legend  of  armed  men  springing  from  the 
dragon's  teeth  sown  by  Jason. 

99,  204.  feares  his  owne  hand  :  is  afraid  of  the  conse- 
quences of  his  own  handwriting. 

99,  205-208.  papers  hold  .  .  .  honors  :  written  docu- 
ments often  contain  the  revelation  of  our  true  selves,  and,  though 
of  no  material  value,  put  the  crown  to  our  reputations. 

99-100,  209-210.  and  with  .  .  .  knowes  :  and  com- 
pare with  its  contents  the  evidence  of  this  my  most  intimate  attend- 
ant. 

loi,  6.  trails  hotly  of  him:  is  hot  upon  his  scent. 
Him  apparently  refers  to  mischiefe  in  1.  4. 

102,  25.  With  .  .  .  affrighted  :  by  which  all  things 
capable  of  terror  are  frightened. 

^03>  3^-  Epimethean.  Epimetheus,  the  brother  of  Pro- 
metheus, opened  Pandora's  box,  and  let  its  evils  loose  among 
mankind. 

103,  37-38.  Or  stood  .  ,  .  artillerie.  In  the  war  of 
Zeus  against  Cronos,  the  Cyclopes  aided  the  former,  who  had  re- 
leased them  from  Tartarus,  by  furnishing  him  with  thunderbolts. 

103,  47-48.  I  will  .  .  .  spirit :  I  will  command  a  spirit, 
raised  by  my  art,  to  enlighten  us. 

104,  54.  Behemoth.  The  editor  has  been  unable  to  find 
any  precedent  for  Chapman's  application  of  this  name —  which  in 
the  Boole  of  Job  denotes  the  whale  or  hippopotamus  —  to  the  chief 
of  the  powers  of  darkness. 

104,  55.  Asaroth.  Apparently  a  variant  of  Ashtaroth,  the 
plural  of  Ashtoreth,  the  Phoenician  moon-goddess  ;  here  mistak- 
enly used  for  the  name  of  a  male  spirit, 

104.  Cartophylax.  A  post-classical  Greek  term  for 
"guardian  of  papers." 

106,  97.  great  in  our  command  :  powerful  in  exercising 
command  over  us. 

107-109,  113-51.    There  is  .  .  .  his  soule.   The  dia- 
logue and  action  here  take  place  probably  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  ' 
perhaps  on  the  upper  stage,  of  which  use  is   made  in  The  Tempest, 
the  Spanish  Tragedie,  and  other  plays.  The  characters  (as  is  evident 


iliotesf  159 

from  11.  102-104)  are  supposed  to  be  far  off,  but  rendered  visible 
and  audible  to  Tamyra  and  D'Ambois  by  Behemoth's  power. 

107,  113.  a  glasse  of  ink  :  a  mirror  made  of  ink,  i.  e. 
the  paper  with  the  proofs  of  Tamyra' s  unfaithfulness. 

107,  n6.  fames  sepulchres  :  the  foulness  beneath  which 
her  good  name  is  buried. 

107,  120-21.  were  .  .  .  rarely:  were  it  never  so  un- 
common, bear  it  with  as  unexampled  courage. 

109,  156.  In  her  forc'd  bloud.  Dilke  is  followed  in  the 
substitution  of  her  for  hh.  The  allusion  is  evidently  to  the  letter 
that  Tamyra  afterwards  writes  to  D'Ambois  in  her  own  blood.  Cf. 
V,  I,    176-77. 

110,  169-70.  Lest  .  .  .  abuse:  lest  a  furious  outburst 
due  to  your  foreknowledge  of  the  plot  against  us. 

111,  185.  And  .  .  .  policy:  and  the  Monsieur's  strata- 
gems shall  be  taken  in  the  flank  by  my  own. 

Ill,  186.  Center.  Here  and  in  1.  192  this  word,  though 
strictly  meaning  the  central  point  of  the  earth,  seems  used  for  the 
earth  itself,  as  the  centre  of  the  universe.  For  this  use  cf  Shaks. 
Tro.  and  Cress,  i,  3,  85-86. 

"  The  heavens  themselves,  the  planets,  and  this  center 
Observe  degree,  priority,  and  place." 

Ill,  191.  calme  .  .  .  ruine  :  unsuspecting  tranquillity 
previous  to  a  convulsion  of  the  elements. 

113.  17-18.  The  stony  .  .  .  sleeper.  The  thunder- 
stone,  or  thunderbolt,  was  supposed  to  have  no  power  of  harm- 
ing any  one  who  was  asleep,  or  who  wore  laurel  leaves.  Leigh,  in 
his  Obser-vations  on  the  First  Tivel-ve  Casars  (164.7),  p.  43,  says 
of  Tiberius  that  "  he  feared  thunder  exceedingly,  and  when  the 
aire  or  weather  was  any  thing  troubled,  he  even  carried  a  chaplet  or 
wreath  of  laurell  about  his  neck,  because  that  as  (Pliny  reporteth) 
is  never  blasted  with  lightning." 

114,  50.  determinate:  apparently  used  in  the  sense  of 
fna/,  though  the  sense  is  rare,  except  as  qualifying  a  word  which 
implies  previous  deliberation. 

115)  55-56-  preventing  ,  .  .  death:  anticipating  the 
last  blast  that  is  to  kill  those  who  live,  and  to  give  life  anew  to 
the  dead. 


i6o  i^otesf 

115,  64.     Fame  growes  in  going.     Borrowed   from 

the  j^tieiJ,  IV,   173—75,  Fama    .    .    .    -viresque   acquirit  eundo. 

IIS>  67-68.  come  .  .  .  lust.  The  syren  is  Tamyra  ;  her 
song  the  letter  she  is  to  write  to  her  lover  (cf.  1.  75);  Montsurry  ; 
band  of  murderers  the  fatal  rocks  ;  and  the  ruffin  gaily ^  D' Ambois. 

1155  69-71.  the  nets  .  .  .  danc'd.  There  is  a  play 
here  upon  nets  in  the  sense  of  wiles,  and  in  its  usual  signification. 
To  "  dance,"  or  "  march,"  or  "  hide  "  in  a  net  was  to  delude 
oneself  that  one  was  acting  secretly  (cf.  Henry  V,  i,  4,  173,  and 
Span.   Trag.  iv,  4,  1 18). 

116,  84.   for  all:    in  spite  of  all. 

116,  86.  their  should  be,  in  grammatical  sequence,  "her," 
referring  to  "  a  womans  "in  83. 

116,  91.  nor  in  humane  consort:  nor  do  they  find 
human  fellowship.  The  metaphor  of  the  ivildernesse  is  still  being 
carried  on. 

118,  128-30.  Where  .  .  .  cruelty:  in  the  same  quar- 
ter [i.  e.  your  person]  where  all  these  bonds  have  been  violated, 
they  are  preserved  by  the  infliction  of  just  punishment,  with  some 
exhibition  of  the  same  quintessence  of  cruelty  that  you  have  shown 
me. 

118,  142.    Thus  I  expresse  thee  yet:  thus  I  give  a 

further  stroke  to  my  delineation  of  thee. 

118,  143.  thy  .  .  .  yet:  the  image  of  thy  unnatural  deprav- 
ity is  not  yet  fully  completed. 

118,  145.  This  other  engine:  the  rack,  on  which 
Montsurry' s  servants  place  Tamyra.  Cf.  1.  157,  "  O  let  me  downe, 
my  lord." 

119,  151-52.  O  who  .  .  .  None  but  my  lord  and 
husband.  Tamyra  thinks  that  some  evil  spirit  has  taken  her 
husband's  shape,  and  cries  to  Montsurry  to  appear  and  deliver  her. 

119,  161.  Now  .  .  .  stands  still.  This  statement  of 
the  leading  principle  of  the  Copernican  system,  as  a  mere  rhetorical 
paradox,  is  remarkable. 

1 19-120,  163-72.  The  too  huge  .  .  .  with  hypo- 
Crisie.  In  this  curious  passage  the  earth  is  conceived  of  as  a 
recumbent  figure,  which  usually  lies  face  upwards  to  the  sky.  But 
the  weight  of  her  sins  has  caused  her  to  roll  over,  so  that  her  back 


jjiOtCS  i6i 

part  now  hra-ves  heaven,  while  her  face  is  turned  to  the  Antipodes  ; 
and  all  the  deceitful  appearances  which  she  has  adopted  through  her 
cheating  arts  have  come  out  in  their  true  nature  on  her  back,  so 
that  her  hypocrisy  stands  revealed. 

120,  178.    he  :   the  Friar. 

120,181.  his.  We  should  expect  a  repetition  of /ber  in  1.  180. 
///s,  however,  seems  to  be  equivalent  to  man' i,  anticipating  man  in 
1.  182.     Possibly  we  should  read  this. 

121,  191.  In,  He  after.  These  words  are  addressed  to  the 
body  of  the  Friar. 

122,  20.    with  terror:   inspiring  terror  in  their  enemies. 

123,  28.  And  .  .  .  man  :  And  consider  it,  though  left 
headless,  as  a  completely  formed  man. 

123,  36.    vertuous  treasurie  :  stock  of  virtues. 

124,  46-53.  Not  so  .  .  .  mens  hate.  An  adaptation 
of  Seneca's  Agamemnon^  64—72  : 

Nan  sic  Lihycis  Syrtihus  aquor 
Furit  ahernos  volvere  fluctus, 
Non  Euxini  turget  ab  imis 
Commota  vadis  undUj  nivali 
Vicina  polo; 

Ubi,  caruUii  immunis  aijuis, 
Lucida  versat  plaustra  Bootes^ 
Ut  praecipitcs  regum  casus 
Fortuna  rotai. 

These  lines,  with  those  immediately  before  and  after,  are  more 
loosely  adapted  in  Kyd's  Spanish  Tragedie,  ill,  I,  l-ll. 

126,  23.  this  embodied  shadow:  this  spirit  while  it  had 
bodily  form. 

126,  24-27.  With  reminiscion  ...  of  art.  Cf.  iv, 
2,  158-61. 

127,  41-53.  Terror  of  darknesse  .  .  .  greater 
light.  After  Bussy's  statement  in  11.  29-32  we  should  expect  him 
to  immediately  summon  the  Prince  of  darknesse,  Behemoth.  But 
11.  41-46  are  apparently  addressed  to  the  sun-god,  who  is  invoked 
to  put  to  flight  night  and  mystery.  Then  as  an  alternative,  in  11.  47- 
53,  Behemoth,  to  whom  darkness  is  as  light,  is  bidden  appear. 
Dilke  substitutes  oh  for  or  (the  reading  of  all  Qq)  at  the  begin- 
ning of  1.  47.      If  this  change  be  right,  the  invocation  commences 


1 62  jl^otes! 

at  this  line,  and  11.  41—46  are  merely  a  preliminary  rhetorical  appeal 
for  more  illumination.  But  in  this  case  there  is  an  incongruity 
between  such  an  appeal  and  the  summoning  of  the  Prince  of  shades, 
who  sees  best  where  darkness  is  thickest.  Lamb  in  his  Specimens 
retains  the  reading  of  the  Qq,  and  says  of  the  passage  :  "  This 
calling  upon  Light  and  Darkness  for  information,  but,  above  all, 
the  description  of  the  spirit  —  '  threw  his  changed  countenance 
headlong  into  clouds  '  —  is  tremendous,  to  the  curdling  of  the  blood. 
I  know  nothing  in  poetry  like  it." 

130,  103.    all  the  signes  :  i.   e.   of  the  Zodiac. 

131.  Intrat  Umbra  Frier  .  .  .  Tamyra.  The  Ghost 
of  the  Friar  enters  and  disccvers,  i.  e.  re-veais  to  -view,  Tamyra, 
who  since  the  close  of  v,  i,  has  remained  wrapped  in  the  arras, 
or,  as  the  variant  stage  direction  in  A  here  puts  it,  ivrapt  in  a 
canapie. 

131,  9.  before  he  be  revenged  :  before  vengeance  is 
taken  on  him.  The  reading  of  A,  engaged,  is  perhaps  (as  Dilke 
suggests)  preferable. 

133,27-28.  what  .  .  .  D'Amboys:  what  bugbear,  such 
as  this,  is  not  afraid  to  visit  D'Amboys,  even  in  his  sleep  ? 

134,45.  'Will  .  .  .  here?  D'Ambois'sswordfails  to  pierce 
the  pri-vy  coat  worn  by  the  murderer.     Cf,  v,  2,  57. 

134,  52.  That  .  .  .  resembled :  That  was  a  successful 
artifice,  and  a  skilful  impersonation. 

^3S>  ^S-  enforce  the  spot  :  emphasize  the  stain  on  your 
honour. 

136,  82.  Then  .  .  .  fact  :  then  these  teachers  of  divinity 
deal  with  figments,  not  with  realities. 

136,  83-84.  Man  .  .  .  servant:  Man  consists  of  two  at- 
tached friends,  the  body  and  the  mind,  of  which  the  latter  is  swayed 
by  the  former,  as  a  lover  by  his  mistress. 

136,  90-93.    And  if  Vespasian  .  .  .  groomes.    Cf. 

Suetonius,  Life  of  Vespasian,  Ch.  24.  Hie,  quum  super  urgentem 
"valetudinem  creberrimo  frigidce  aqux  usu  etiam  intestina  -vitiasset, 
nee  eo  minus  muneribus  imperatoriis  ex  consuetudine  fungeretur,  ut 
etiam  legationes  audiret  Cubans,  al'vo  repente  usque  ad  defectionem 
soluta,  Imperatorem,  ait,  stantem  mori  oportere.  Dumque  consurgity 
ac  nititur,  inter  manus  suhh'vanttum  exstinctus  est. 


iRoces;  163 

137,  100-108.  And  haste  .  .  .  dwellers.  An  adapta- 
tion of  Seneca,  Her.  Oet.  1 5 18-1526: 

0  decus  mundi,  radiate  Titan, 
Cujut  ad  primes  Hecate  vapores 
Lassa  nocturna:  levat  ora  higa. 
Die  sub  Aurora  ftsitis  Sah(Zis, 
Die  sub  Occasu  positis  Iberis, 
eiuiqueferventi  quatiuntur  axe, 
iluique  sub  plaustro  patiuntur  Ursa  ; 
Die  ad  aternos  properare  Manes 
Herculem. 

137,  iio-iii.  may  .  .  .  funerall  :  may  celebrate  fittingly 
my  unworthy  end  with  such  a  funeral  volley  as  it  deserves. 

138,  135-40-  Mysunne  .  .  .  bloud.  In  these  lines  the 
hlhng  spectacle,  the  prodigie  of  1.  134,  and  its  effect  are  described. 
Tamyra,  the  light  of  D'Ambois's  life,  with  her  reddened  bosom  and 
hands,  is  likened  to  a  sun  whose  beams  have  turned  to  blood.  So  far 
the  imagery  is  clear,  but  it  is  difficult  to  extract  a  satisfactory  sense 
from  what  follows.  What  do  Pindus  and  Ossa  symbolize,  and  what 
exactly  does  their  melting  mean  ?  This  seems  one  of  the  few  passages 
in  the  play  which  really  deserve  Dryden's  strictures  for  "  looseness 
of  expression  and  gross  hyperboles. ' ' 

I39»  146.  Struck.  The  gq,  and  all  editors,  read  stuck,  but 
the  word  seems  inapplicable  to  a  thunderbolt.  The  editor  has  con- 
jectured struck,  which,  with  a  minimum  of  change,  gives  the  sense 
required. 

139,  149-  Joine  flames  with  Hercules.  Here  the  quar- 
tos of  1607  and  1608  contain  the  right  reading.  D'Ambois,  who 
has  met  death  in  the  spirit  of  Hercules  (cf  11.  100-108),  is  now 
to  share  his  translation  to  the  skies.  For  the  description  of  Hercules 
as  a  star  see  Seneca,  Her.  Oet.  1 564-1 581. 

142,211-14.  as  .  .  .  dies.  The  reference  is  to  the  wax  in 
the  taper,  which  retains  in  its  sa-vour  the  mark  of  its  origin  in  the 
hive,  till  transient  as  life,  it  glances  with  an  eye  of  flame,  and,  so 
doing,  expires. 


THE    TEXT 

The  Revenge  of  Bussy  D' Amhois  was  printed  in  quarto  in  1613 
by  T.  S.  for  John  Helme.  No  reprint  appeared  till  1873,  when  it 
was  included  in  the  edition  of  Chapman's  Tragedies  and  Comedies 
published  by  J.  Pearson.  The  text  of  the  quarto  was  reproduced, 
with  the  original  spelling  and  punctuation,  but  with  a  few  errors. 
There  have  been  two  later  editions  in  modernized  spelling,  and  with 
slight  emendations,  by  R.  H.  Shepherd  in  1874,  and  W.  L.  Phelps 
in  1895. 

In  the  present  edition  the  text  of  the  quarto  has  been  reproduced, 
with  some  additional  emendations,  and  the  original  spelling  has  been 
retained.  As  regards  punctuation,  the  use  of  capital  letters  and  italics, 
and  the  division  of  the  Acts  into  Scenes,  the  same  methods  have 
been  followed  as  in  the  case  of  Bussy  D'  Amhois. 


THE 

REVENGE 

OF 

A 

T  R  A  G  E  D  1  E. 

(t/fj  h  hath  beene  often  prefented at  the 

prtuate  Play-houfe  in  the  White  Fryers, 

Written 

By  George  Chapman,  Gentleman.. 


LONDON: 
Printed  by  T.  S.  and  are  to  befolde  by  I  0  H  n  H  E  l'm  E» 
at  his  Shop  in  S.Dunflones  Churchyard, 
in  Fleet  (I  reel.       I   6   i    j. 


SOURCES 

The  story  of  a  plot  by  Bussy  D'Ambois's  kinsfolk  to  avenge  his 
murder  is,  in  the  main,  of  Chapman's  own  invention.  But  he  had 
evidently  read  an  account  similar  to  that  given  later  by  De  Thou  of 
the  design  entertained  for  a  time  by  Bussy's  sister  Renee  (whom 
Chapman  calls  Charlotte)  and  her  husband,  Baligny,  to  take  venge- 
ance on  Montsurry.  Clermont  D'Ambois  is  himself  a  fictitious 
character,  but  the  episodes  in  which  he  appears  in  Acts  ii-iv  are 
drawn  from  the  account  of  the  treacherous  proceedings  against  the 
Count  d'Auvergne  in  Edward  Grimeston's  translation  of  Jean  de 
Serres's  In-ventaire  General  de  P Histoire  de  France.  This  narra- 
tive, however,  is  not  by  De  Serres,  but  by  Pierre  Matthieu,  whose 
Histoire  de  France  was  one  of  the  sources  used  by  Grimeston  for 
events  later  than  1598. 

The  portraiture  of  Clermont  throughout  the  play  as  the  high- 
souled  philosopher  is  inspired  by  Epictetus's  delineation  in  his  Dis- 
courses of  the  ideal  Stoic.  But  in  his  reluctance  to  carry  out  his 
duty  of  revenge  he  is  evidently  modelled  upon  Hamlet.  In  Act  v, 
Scene  i,  the  influence  of  Shakespeare's  tragedy  is  specially  manifest. 

The  Scenes  in  Act  v  relating  to  the  assassination  of  Guise  are 
based  upon  Grimeston's  translation  of  De  Serres's  Inveniaire  General. 

The  passages  in  Grimeston's  volume  which  recount  the  Duke's 
murder,  and  those  which  tell  the  story  of  the  Count  d'Auvergne,  are 
reprinted  as  an  Appendix. 

The  frontispiece  to  this  volume,  the  Chateau  of  La  Coutanciere, 
at  which  Bussy  D'Ambois  was  killed,  is  reproduced  from  an  illus- 
tiation  in  A.  Joubert's  Louis  de  Clermont 


TO  THE  RIGHT 
VERTUOUS,   AND 

truely  Noble  Knight,  S'- 

Thomas   Howard^  iffc. 

Sir, 

Since  workes  of  this  kinde  have  beene  lately  es- 
teemed worthy  the  patronage  of  some  of  our  worthiest 
Nobles,  I  have  made  no  doubt  to  preferre  this  of  mine 
to  your  undoubted  vertue  and  exceeding  true  noblesse, 
as  contayning  matter  no  lesse  deserving  your  reading,  r 
and  excitation  to  heroycall  life,  then  any  such  late  dedica- 
tion. Nor  have  the  greatest  Princes  of  Italic  and  other 
countries  conceived  it  any  least  diminution  to  their  great- 
nesse  to  have  their  names  wing'd  with  these  tragicke 
plumes,  and  disperst  by  way  of  patronage  through  the  lo 
most  noble  notices  of  Europe. 

Howsoever,  therefore,  in  the  scasnicall  presentation  it 
might  meete  with  some  maligners,  yet,  considering  even 
therein  it  past  with  approbation  of  more  worthy  judge- 
ments, the  ballance  of  their  side  (especially  being  held  1 5 
by  your  impartiall  hand)  I  hope  will  to  no  graine  abide 
the  out-weighing.  And  for  the  autenticall  truth  of  eyther 
person  or  action,  who  (worth  the  respecting)  will  expect 
it  in  a  poeme,  whose  subject  is  not  truth,  but  things  like 
truth  ?  Poore  envious  soules  they  are  that  cavill  at  truths  20 
want  in  these  naturall  fictions  :  materiall  instruction,  ele- 
gant and  sententious  excitation  to  vertue,  and  deflection 


^1)0  (lBpi0tle  SDcUicatorie  169 

from  her  contrary,  being  the  soule,  lims,  and  limits  of  an 
autenticall  tragedie.  But  whatsoever  merit  of  your  full 
countenance  and  favour  suffers  defect  in  this,  I  shall  soone25 
supply  with  some  other  of  more  generall  account ;  wherein 
your  right  vertuous  name  made  famous  and  preserved  to 
posteritie,  your  future  comfort  and  honour  in  your  present 
acceptation  and  love  of  all  vertuous  and  divine  expression 
may  be  so  much  past  others  of  your  rancke  encreast,  as  30 
they  are  short  of  your  judiciall  ingenuitie,  in  their  due 
estimation. 

For    howsoever     those    ignoble    and     sowre-brow'd 
worldlings   are   carelesse    of  whatsoever  future   or   pre- 
sent opinion  spreads  of  them  ;  yet  (with  the  most  divine  3  5 
philosopher,   if  Scripture  did  not   confirme  it)  I  make  it 
matter  of  my  faith,  that  we  truely  retaine  an  intellectuall      ^ 
feeling   of   good   or  bad  after   this   life,    proportionably 
answerable  to  the  love  or  neglect  we  beare  here  to  all 
vertue  and  truely-humane  instruction:  in  whose  favour 40 
and  honour  I  wish  you  most  eminent,  and  rest  ever, 
Tour  true  vertues 
most  true  obsernjer, 

Geo.    Chapman. 


THE  ACTORS  NAMES 


Henry,  the  King. 

Soissone. 

Monsieur,  his  Brother. 

Ferric ot,  [An  Usher. '\ 

Guise.   D[uke]. 

[A  Messenger.  ] 

Renel,  a  Marquesse. 

The  Guard. 

Montsureau,  an  Earle. 

SouUiers. 

Baligny,  Lord  Lieu- 

Servants. 

tenant  [of  Cambray] . 

'  Bussy. 

Clermont  D'  Ambois. 

Monsieur. 

Maillard.  ] 

The  ghost  [s]  of  > 

Guise. 

Challon.      I  Captaines. 

Card.  Guise 

Aumal.       j 

Shattilion. 

Espernone. 

Countesse  of  Cambray. 
Tamyra,  wife  to  Montsureau. 
Charlotte  [D'Ambois'],  wife  to  Baligny. 
Rio'ua,  a  Servant  [to  the  Countesse] . 


[Scene  :   Paris,  and  in  or  near  Cambrai.'] 


of 

tB^rageOte 

Actus  primi  Sc^na  prima. 

[^  Room  at  the  Court  in  Par  is. "^ 

Enter  Baligny,  Renel. 

Baligny.  To  what  will  this   declining   king- 
dome  turne, 
Swindging  in  every  license,  as  in  this 
Stupide  permission  of  brave   D'Ambois    Mur- 

ther  ? 
Murther  made  paralell  with  Law  !  Murther  us'd 
To  serve  the  kingdome,  given  by  sute  to  men 
For  their  advancement !   suffered  scarcrow-like 
To  fright  adulterie  !   what  will  policie 
At  length  bring  under  his  capacitie  ? 


172     Ketjenge  of  Busfsi^  D'^mboifi!  [acti. 

Renel.  All    things ;    for    as,  when   the   high 

births  of  Kings, 
Deliverances,  and  coronations,  lo 

We  celebrate  with  all  the  cities  bels 
Jangling  together  in  untun'd  confusion. 
All  order'd  clockes  are  tyed  up;  so,  when  glory, 
Flatterie,  and  smooth  applauses  of  things  ill. 
Uphold    th'inordinate    swindge  of  downe-right 

power,  IS 

Justice,  and  truth  that  tell  the  bounded  use, 
Vertuous  and  well  distinguisht  formes  of  time. 
Are  gag'd  and  tongue-tide.    But  wee  have  ob- 

serv'd 
Rule    in    more    regular    motion :    things    most 

lawfull 
Were  once  most  royall ;   Kings  sought  common 

good,  20 

Mens  manly  liberties,  though  ne'er  so  meane. 
And  had  their  owne  swindge  so  more  free,  and 

more. 
But    when    pride    enter'd    them,   and    rule    by 

power, 
AH  browes  that  smil'd  beneath  them,  frown'd ; 

hearts  griev'd 
By  imitation  ;   vertue  quite  was  vanisht,  ^s 

And  all  men  studi'd  selfe-love,  fraud,  and  vice. 
Then  no  man  could  be  good  but  he  was  punisht. 
Tyrants,  being  still  more  fearefull  of  the  good 


Scene  I]  HetetTge  of  115us;sf^  2r)'^mijois   1 73 

Then  of  the  bad,  their  subjects  vertues  ever 
Manag'd  with  curbs  and  dangers,  and  esteem'd     30 
As  shadowes  and  detractions  to  their  owne. 
Bal.  Now  all  is  peace,  no  danger,  now  what 
foUowes  ? 
Idlenesse  rusts  us,  since  no  vertuous  labour 
Ends  ought  rewarded  ;   ease,  securitie, 
Now  all  the  palme  weares.    Wee  made  warre 

before  35 

So  to  prevent  warre ;   men  with  giving  gifts. 
More  then  receiving,  made  our  countrey  strong ; 
Our  matchlesse  race   of  souldiers   then   would 

spend 
In   publike   warres,  not    private   brawles,  their 

spirits ;  ^ 

In  daring  enemies,  arm'd  with  meanest  armes,      40 
Not  courting  strumpets,  and  consuming  birth- 
rights 
In  apishnesse  and  envy  of  attire. 
No  labour  then  was  harsh,  no  way  so  deepe, 
No  rocke  so  steepe,  but  if  a  bird  could  scale  it, 
Up  would  our  youth  flie  to.    A  foe  in  armes        45 
Stirr'd  up  a  much  more  lust  of  his  encounter 
Then  of  a  mistresse  never  so  be-painted. 
Ambition  then  was  onely  scaling  walles. 
And  over-topping  turrets  ;   fame  was  wealth  ; 
Best  parts,  best  deedes,  were  best  nobilitie  ;  50 

Honour  with  worth,  and  wealth  well  got  or  none. 


174     Hebenge  of  Jdnss^  SD'^mboist  [act  i. 

Countries  we  wonne  with  as  few  men  as  coun- 
tries : 
Vertue  subdu'd  all. 

Ren.  Just :   and  then  our  nobles 

Lov'd  vertue  so,  they  prais'd  and  us'd  it  to  ; 
Had  rather  doe  then   say ;   their  owne    deedes 

hearing  55 

By  others  glorified,  then  be  so  barraine 
That  their  parts  onely  stood  in  praising  others. 
Bal.   Who   could   not  doe,  yet    prais'd,  and 

envi'd  not ; 
Civile  behaviour  flourisht ;   bountie  flow'd  ; 
Avarice    to    upland    boores,    slaves,    hang-men 

banisht.  60 

Ren.  Tis  now  quite  otherwise.    But  to  note 

the  cause 
Of  all  these  foule  digressions  and  revolts 
From  our  first  natures,  this  tis  in  a  word  : 
Since  good  arts  faile,  crafts  and  deceits  are  us'd  : 
Men  ignorant  are  idle ;   idle  men  65 

Most   practise  what   they  most  may  doe  with 

ease. 
Fashion  and  favour ;  all  their  studies  ayming 
At  getting  money,  which  no  wise  man  ever 
Fed  his  desires  with. 

Bal.  Yet  now  none  are  wise 

That  thinke  not  heavens  true  foolish,  weigh'd 

with  that.  70 


75 


Scene  I.]  Hetmge  of  WvLSS^  SE>'^mbots!    175 

Well,  thou  most  worthy  to  be  greatest  Guise, 
Make  with  thy  greatnesse  a  new  world  arise. 
Such  deprest  nobles  (followers  of  his) 
As  you,  my  selfe,  my  lord,  will  finde  a  time 
When  to  revenge  your  wrongs. 

Ren.  I  make  no  doubt : 

In  meane  time,  I  could  wish  the  wrong  were 

righted 
Of  your   slaine   brother   in    law,  brave   Bussy 
D'Ambois. 
Bal.  That  one  accident  was  made  my  charge. 
My  brother  Bussy's  sister  (now  my  wife) 
By  no  suite  would  consent  to  satisfie  ^      80 

My  love  of  her  with  marriage,  till  I  vow'd 
To  use  my  utmost  to  revenge  my  brother : 
But  Clermont  D'Ambois  (Bussy's  second  bro- 
ther) 
Had,  since,  his  apparition,  and  excitement 
To  suffer  none  but  his  hand  in  his  wreake ;  85 

Which    hee    hath    vow'd,   and    so    will   needes 

acquite 
Me  of  my  vow  made  to  my  wife,  his  sister, 
And  undertake  himselfe  Bussy's  revenge. 
Yet  loathing  any  way  to  give  it  act. 
But  in  the  noblest  and  most  manly  course,  90 

If  th'Earle  dares  take  it,  he  resolves  to  send 
A  challenge  to  him,  and  my  selfe  must  beare  it ; 
To  which  deliverie  I  can  use  no  meanes. 


176     Hetnige  of  515u0S^  S)'^mboi0  [act  i. 

He  is  so  barricado'd  in  his  house, 
And  arm'd  with  guard  still. 

Ren.  That  meanes  lay  on  mee,  95 

Which  I  can  strangely  make.    My  last   lands 

sale, 
By  his   great  suite,  stands  now  on   price  with 

him. 
And  hee  (as  you  know)  passing  covetous, 
With  that  blinde  greedinesse  that  followes  gaine, 
Will   cast   no   danger  where  her   sweete  feete 

tread.  100 

Besides,  you  know,  his  lady,  by  his  suite 
(Wooing  as  freshly  as  when  first  love  shot 
His  faultlesse  arrowes  from  her  rosie  eyes) 
Now  lives  with  him  againe,  and  shee,  I  know. 
Will  joyne  with  all  helps  in  her  friends  revenge.  105 
Bal.   No   doubt,  my  lord,  and    therefore  let 

me  pray  you 
To  use  all  speede ;   for  so  on  needels  points 
My  wifes  heart  stands  with  haste  of  the  revenge, 
Being  (as  you  know)  full  of  her  brothers  fire. 
That  shee  imagines  I  neglect  my  vow;  no 

Keepes  off  her  kinde  embraces,  and  still  askes, 
"  When,  when,  will  this  revenge  come  ?  when 

perform'd 
Will    this    dull    vow    be  ? "     And,   I    vow    to 

heaven, 
So  sternely,  and  so  past  her  sexe  she  urges 


Scene  I]  l^ebenge  of  Busfs;^  m'^mhoi&   177 

My  vowes  performance,  that  I  almost  feare         115 
To  see  her,  when  I  have  a  while  beene  absent, 
Not  showing  her,  before  I  speake,  the  bloud 
She  so  much  thirsts  for,  freckling  hands  and  face. 
Ren.   Get  you  the  challenge  writ,  and  looke 
from  me 
To   heare   your   passage    clear'd    no  long  time 

after.  ^^^^  Re;2[^el'\.  120 

Bal.  All  restitution  to  your  worthiest  lord- 
ship ! 
Whose  errand  I  must  carrie  to  the  King, 
As  having  sworne  my  service  in  the  search 
Of  all  such  malecontents  and  their  designes, 
By  seeming  one  affected  with  their  faction  125 

And  discontented  humours  gainst  the  state : 
Nor  doth  my  brother  Clermont  scape  my  coun- 

saile 
Given  to  the  King  about  his  Guisean  greatnesse. 
Which  (as  I  spice  it)  hath  possest  the  King, 
Knowing  his  daring  spirit,  of  much  danger  130 

Charg'd  in   it  to  his   person ;  though   my  con- 
science 
Dare  sweare  him  cleare  of  any  power  to  be 
Infected  with  the  least  dishonestie  : 
Yet  that  sinceritie,  wee  politicians 
Must  say,  growes  out  of  envie  since  it  cannot    135 
Aspire  to  policies  greatnesse ;  and  the  more 
We  worke  on  all  respects  of  kinde  and  vertue, 


178     Kctjenge  of  Wu&n^  w^mhoia  [act  i. 

The  more  our  service  to  the  King  seemes  great, 
In  sparing  no  good  that  seemes  bad  to  him  : 
And  the  more  bad  we  make  the  most  of  good,    140 
The  more  our  policie  searcheth,  and  our  service 
Is  wonder'd  at  for  wisedome  and  sincerenesse. 
Tis  easie  to  make  good  suspected  still. 
Where  good,  and  God,  are  made  but 

cloakeS   for  ill.  Enter  Henry, 

See  Monsieur  taking;  now  his  leave  for   ■^"""^"''j 

Guise, 
Brabant ;  aerm[one], 

The  Guise  &  his  deare  minion,  Cler-   Efemone, 
mont  u  Ambois,  ,  ,. 

'  _  sieur  taking 

Whispering  together,  not  of  state  affaires,   Ua-ve  of  the 
I  durst  lay  wagers,  (though  the  Guise  be   ^'"S- 

now 
In  chiefe  heate  of  his  faction)  but  of  some  thing 
Savouring  of  that  which  all  men  else  despise,      150 
How  to  be  truely  noble,  truely  wise. 

Monsieur.  See  how  hee  hangs  upon  the  eare 

of  Guise, 
Like  to  his  jewell ! 

Epernon.  Hee's  now  whisp'ring  in 

Some  doctrine  of  stabilitie  and  freedome. 
Contempt  of  outward  greatnesse,  and  the  guises  155 
That  vulgar  great  ones  make   their  pride  and 

zeale, 

Enter  Henry  .    .    .    King.    Placed  by  editor  after   144  instead 
of  145,  as  in  ^  Soisson.    Ed.j   Q,  Foisson. 


sczNE  I.]  Ketrnge  of  llBusig^  2D'9lmbots;   1 79 

Being    onely    servile    traines,    and     sumptuous 

houses, 
High  places,  offices. 

Mom.  Contempt  of  these 

Does  he  read  to  the  Guise  ?  Tis  passing  need- 
full. 
And  hee,  I  thinke,  makes  show  t'afFect  his  doc- 
trine. 160 
Ep.    Commends,  admires  it  — 
Mons.                                 And  pursues  another. 
Tis  fine  hypocrisie,  and  cheape,  and  vulgar, 
Knowne  for  a  covert  practise,  yet  beleev'd 
By   those   abus'd    soules   that    they    teach    and 

governe 
No   more    then  wives   adulteries  by  their  hus- 
bands, 165 
They  bearing  it  with  so  unmov'd  aspects. 
Hot  comming  from  it,  as  twere  not  [at]  all. 
Or    made    by    custome    nothing.    This    same 

D'Ambois 
Hath  gotten  such  opinion  of  his  vertues. 
Holding  all  learning  but  an  art  to  live  well,         170 
And  showing  hee  hath  learn'd  it  in  his  life. 
Being  thereby  strong  in  his  perswading  others, 
That  this  ambitious  Guise,  embracing  him,  ^ 

Is  thought  t'embrace  his  vertues. 

167  at.    Added  by  ed. 

174  t'embrace.    Ed.;   Q,   t'mbrace. 


i8o     Keijenge  of  W\i&6^  2r>'^mboi0  [act  i. 

Ep.  Yet  in  some 

His  vertues  are  held  false  for  th'others  vices  :      175 
For  tis   more  cunning   held,  and    much    more 

common, 
To  suspect  truth  then  falshood  :  and  of  both 
Truth  still  fares  worse,  as  hardly  being  beleev'd. 
As  tis  unusuall  and  rarely  knowne. 

Mons.   He  part  engendring  vertue.    Men  af- 
firme,  180 

Though  this  same  Clermont  hath  a  D'Ambois 

spirit, 
And  breathes  his  brothers  valour,  yet  his  temper 
Is  so  much  past  his  that  you  cannot  move  him  : 
He  try  that  temper  in  him.  —  Come,  you  two 
Devoure  each  other  with  your  vertues  zeale,       185 
And  leave  for  other  friends  no  fragment  of  yee  : 
I  wonder,  Guise,  you  will  thus  ravish  him 
Out  of  my  bosome,  that  first  gave  the  life 
His  manhood   breathes  spirit,  and  meanes,  and 

luster. 
What  doe  men  thinke  of  me,  I  pray  thee,  Cler- 
mont ?  190 
Once  give  me  leave  (for  tryall  of  that  love 
That  from  thy  brother  Bussy  thou  inherit'st) 
T'unclaspe  thy  bosome. 

Clermont.  As  how,  sir  ? 

Mons.   Be  a  true  glasse  to  mee,  in  which  I 
may 


Scene  I.  ]  Ut\)mQt  of  llBuss:^  W^xtihoisi   I  8 1 

Behold  what  thoughts  the  many-headed  beast      195 
And  thou  thy  selfe  breathes  out  concerning  me, 
My  ends,  and  new  upstarted  state  in  Brabant, 
For  which  I  now  am  bound,  my  higher  aymes 
Imagin'd  here  in  France  :   speake,  man,  and  let 
Thy  words  be  borne  as  naked  as  thy  thoughts.  200 
O  were  brave  Bussy  living ! 

Ckr.  Living,  my  lord  ! 

Mons.  Tis  true  thou  art  his  brother,  but  durst 
thou 
Have  brav'd  the  Guise ;  mauger  his  presence, 

courted 
His  wedded  lady  ;  emptied  even  the  dregs 
Of  his  worst  thoughts  of  mee  even  to  my  teeth  5205 
Discern'd  not  me,  his  rising  soveraigne. 
From  any  common  groome,  but  let  me  heare 
My  grossest  faults,  as  grosse-full  as  they  were  ? 
Durst  thou  doe  this  ? 

Ckr.  I  cannot  tell.    A  man 

Does  never  know  the  goodnesse  of  his  stomackeiio 
Till  hee  sees  meate  before  him.     Were  I  dar'd. 
Perhaps,  as  he  was,  I  durst  doe  hke  him. 

Mons.  Dare  then  to  poure  out  here  thy  freest 
soule 
Of  what  I  am. 

Cler.  Tis  stale,  he  tolde  you  it. 

Mons.   He  onely  jested,  spake  of  splene  and 

envie ;  215 


1 82     Kctjcnge  of  J&usie^  ffi>'^mboi0  [act  i. 

Thy  soule,  more  learn'd,  is  more  ingenuous, 
Searching,  judiciall ;  let  me  then  from  thee 
Heare  what  I  am. 

Ckr.  What  but  the  sole  support, 

And  most  expectant  hope  of  all  our  France, 
The  toward  victor  of  the  whole  Low  Countryes  ?  220 

Mons.   Tush,  thou  wilt  sing  encomions  of  my 
praise  ! 
Is  this  like  D'Ambois  ?   I  must  vexe  the  Guise, 
Or  never  looke  to  heare  free  truth.    Tell  me. 
For  Bussy  lives  not ;  hee  durst  anger  mee. 
Yet,  for  my  love,  would  not  have  fear'd  to  anger  225 
The   King  himselfe.    Thou  understand'st    me, 
dost  not  ? 

Cler.   I  shall  my  lord,  with  studie. 

Mons.  Dost  understand  thy  selfe  ?   I  pray  thee 
tell  me. 
Dost  never  search  thy  thoughts,  what  my  de- 

signe 
Might  be  to  entertaine  thee  and  thy  brother  ?      230 
What  turne  I  meant  to  serve  with  you  ? 

Cler.   Even  what  you  please  to  thinke. 

Mons.  But  what  thinkst  thou  ? 

Had  I  no  end  in't,  think'st  ? 

Cler.  I  thinke  you  had. 

Mons.  When  I  tooke  in  such  two  as  you  two 
were, 
A  ragged  couple  of  decaid  commanders,  235 


Scene  I]     l^t^tW^t  Of  115U00^  2D'^mbOl0      I  83 

When  a  French-crowne  would  plentifully  serve 
To  buy  you  both  to  any  thing  i'th'earth  —  i 

Cler.   So  it  would  you. 

Mom.  Nay  bought  you  both  out-right, 

You  and  your  trunkes  —  I   feare  me,  I  offend 
thee. 
Cler.   No,  not  a  jot. 

Mons.  The  most  renowmed  souldier,24o 

Epaminondas  (as  good  authors  say) 
Had  no  more  suites  then  backes,  but  you  two 

shar'd 
But  one  suite  twixt  you  both,  when  both  your 

studies 
Were  not   what   meate   to  dine   with,  if  your 

partridge. 
Your  snipe,  your  wood-cocke,  larke,  or   your 

red  hering,  245 

But  where  to  begge  it ;   whether  at  my  house, 
Or  at  the  Guises  (for  you  know  you  were 
Ambitious  beggars)  or  at  some  cookes-shop,        ^ 
T'eternize  the  cookes  trust,  and  score  it  up. 
Dost  not  offend  thee  ? 

Cler.  No,  sir.    Pray  proceede.  250 

Mons.    As  for  thy  gentry,  I  dare  boldly  take 
Thy  honourable  othe  :   and  yet  some  say 
Thou  and  thy  most  renowmed  noble  brother 
Came  to  the  Court  first  in  a  keele  of  sea-coale. 
Dost  not  offend  thee  ? 


1 84     Ketinige  of  )15u00^  w^xahoin  [act  i. 

Cler.  Never  doubt  it,  sir.  255 

Mons.   Why    doe  I    love   thee,  then  ?    why 
have  I  rak'd  thee 
Out  of  the  dung-hill  ?  cast  my  cast  ward-robe 

on  thee  ? 
Brought  thee  to  Court  to,  as  I  did  thy  brother  ? 
Made  yee  my  sawcy  bon  companions  ? 
Taught  yee  to  call  our  greatest  Noblemen  260 

By  the  corruption  of  their  names  —  Jack,  Tom  ? 
Have  I  blowne  both  for  nothing  to  this  bubble  ? 
Though  thou  art  learn'd,  thast  no  enchanting 

wit  ; 
Or,  were  thy  wit  good,  am  I  therefore  bound 
To  keepe  thee  for  my  table  ? 

Cler.  Well,  sir,  'twere   265 

A  good  knights  place.      Many  a  proud  dubb'd 

gallant 
Seekes    out   a    poore  knights  living  from   such 
emrods. 
\_Mons.^    Or  what  use  else  should  I  designe 
thee  to  ? 
Perhaps  you'll  answere  me  —  to  be  my  pander. 
Cler.   Perhaps  I  shall. 

Mofts.  Or  did  the  slie  Guise  put  thee 270 

Into  my  bosome  t'undermine  my  projects  ? 

260  Noblemen.   Two  words  in  Q. 

268  Mons.   {^  omits  J  added  in  MS.  in  one  of  the  copies  in  the 
Brit.  Mus. 


Scene  I]  Ketjmge  of  515u00^  SD'^tttljotflf   185 

I  feare  thee  not ;  for,  though  I  be  not  sure 

I  have  thy  heart,  I  know  thy  braine-pan  yet 

To  be  as  emptie  a  dull  piece  of  wainscot 

As  ever  arm'd  the  scalpe  of  any  courtier  ;  275 

A  fellow  onely  that  consists  of  sinewes  ; 

Meere  Swisser,  apt  for  any  execution. 

Cler.  But  killing  of  the  King  ! 

Mons.  Right :   now  I  see 

Thou  understand'st  thy  selfe. 

Cler.  I,  and  you  better. 

You  are  a  Kings  sonne  borne. 

Mons.  Right. 

Cler.  And  a  Kings  brother.  280 

Mons.  True. 

Cler.  And  might  not  any  foole  have  beene  so 
too. 
As  well  as  you  ? 

Mons.  A  poxe  upon  you  ! 

Cler.  You  did  no  princely  deedes 

Ere  you  were  borne  (I  take  it)  to  deserve  it  ;      285 
Nor  did  you  any  since  that  I  have  heard  ; 
Nor  will  doe  ever  any,  as  all  thinke. 

Mons.  The  Divell  take  him  !      He  no  more 
of  him. 

Guise.  Nay  :   stay,   my  lord,  and   heare  him 
answere  you. 

278-284  The  lines  are  broken  in  the  Q  at  King,  see,  selfe, 
better,  Right,   True,  too,  upon  you,  deedes. 

285  youivere.    Shepherd,  Phelps;   Q,  you're. 


1 86     Hetjmge  of  llBusfs;^  2E)';9lmljoi0  [acti. 

Mons.   No  more,  I  sweare.     Farewell. 

Ex  \eunt~\  Mons  \ieur\  ,  Esper  \none\  ,  Soiss  [<?»] 

Gui.  No  more  !  Ill  fortune  !  290 

I  would  have  given  a  million  to  have  heard 
His  scoffes  retorted,  and  the  insolence 
Of  his  high  birth  and  greatnesse  (which  were 

never 
Effects  of  his  deserts,  but  of  his  fortune) 
Made  show  to  his  dull  eyes  beneath  the  worth   295 
That  men  aspire  to  by  their  knowing  vertues, 
Without  which  greatnesse  is  a  shade,  a  bubble. 
Cler.  But  what  one  great  man  dreames  of 
that  but  you  ? 
All  take  their  births  and  birth-rights  left  to  them 
(Acquir'd  by  others)  for  their  owne  worths  pur- 
chase, 300 
When  many  a  foole  in  both  is  great  as  they  : 
And  who  would  thinke  they  could  winne  with 

their  worths 
Wealthy   possessions,    when,    wonne    to    their 

hands. 
They  neyther  can  judge  justly  of  their  value. 
Nor  know  their  use  ?  and  therefore  they  are  puft305 
With  such  proud  tumours  as  this  Monsieur  is. 
Enabled  onely  by  the  goods  they  have 
To  scorne  all  goodnesse  :   none  great  fill  their 

fortunes ; 
But  as  those  men  that  make  their  houses  greater, 


Scene  I]  Keteuge  of  lBu00^  2r>'^mboig    187 

Their  housholds  being  lesse,  so  Fortune  raises    310 
Huge  heapes  of  out-side  in  these  mightie  men, 
And  gives  them  nothing  in  them. 

Gut.  True  as  truth  : 

And  therefore  they  had  rather  drowne  their  sub- 
stance 
In  superfluities  of  brickes  and  stones 
(Like  Sysiphus,  advancing  of  them  ever,  315 

And  ever  pulling  downe)  then  lay  the  cost 
Of  any  sluttish  corner  on  a  man. 
Built  with  Gods  finger,  and  enstil'd  his  temple. 
Bal.  Tis  nobly  said,  my  lord. 
Gut.  I  would  have  these  things 

Brought  upon  stages,  to  let  mightie  misers  320 

See  all  their  grave  and  serious  miseries  plaid, 
As  once  they  were  in  Athens  and  olde  Rome. 
Cler.   Nay,     we     must    now     have    nothing 
brought  on  stages. 
But  puppetry,  and  pide  ridiculous  antickes  : 
Men  thither  come  to  laugh,  and  feede  fool-fat,  325 
Checke  at  all  goodnesse  there,  as  being    pro- 

phan'd  : 
When,    wheresoever    goodnesse    comes,    shee 

makes 
The  place  still  sacred,  though  with  other  feete 
Never  so  much  tis  scandal'd  and  polluted. 
Let  me  learne  anything  that  fits  a  man,  330 

In  any  stables  showne,  as  well  as  stages. 


1 88     lietjengr  of  515u00^  W^mhois  [act  i. 

Bal.  Why,  is   not  all  the    world  esteem'd  a 

stage  ? 
Cler.   Yes,  and  right  worthily  ;  and  stages  too 
Have  a  respect  due  to  them,  if  but  onely 
For  what  the  good   Greeke  moralist   sayes   of 

them :  335 

"  Is  a  man  proud  of  greatnesse,  or  of  riches  ? 
Give  me  an  expert  actor,  He  shew  all, 
That  can  within  his  greatest  glory  fall. 
Is  a  man  fraid  with  povertie  and  lownesse  ? 
Give  me  an  actor,  He  shew  every  eye  340 

What  hee  laments  so,  and  so  much  doth  flye. 
The  best  and  worst  of  both."     If  but  for  this 

then. 
To  make  the  proudest  out-side  that  most  swels 
With  things  without  him,  and  above  his  worth. 
See  how  small  cause  hee  has  to  be  so  blowne  up; 345 
And  the  most  poore  man,  to  be   griev'd  with 

poorenesse, 
Both  being  so  easily  borne  by  expert  actors. 
The  stage  and  actors  are  not  so  contemptfull 
As  every  innovating  Puritane, 

And  ignorant  sweater  out  of  zealous  envie  350 

Would  have  the  world  imagine.    And  besides 
That  all  things  have  been  likened  to  the  mirth 
Us'd  upon  stages,  and  for  stages  fitted. 
The  splenative  philosopher,  that  ever 

335   moralist.    Shepherd,  Phelps;   Q,  Moralists. 


Scene  I.]     IXt^itXl^t  0(  515U0Sf^  SD'^mbOlfi      I  89 

Laught  at  them  all,  were  worthy  the  enstaging.  355 
All  objects,  were  they  ne'er  so  full  of  teares, 
He  so  conceited  that  he  could  distill  thence 
Matter  that  still  fed  his  ridiculous  humour. 
Heard  he  a  lawyer,  never  so  vehement  pleading, 
Hee  stood  and  laught.    Heard  hee  a  trades-man 

swearing,  360 

Never  so  thriftily  selling  of  his  wares. 
He    stood    and    laught.      Heard    hee    an   holy 

brother. 
For  hollow  ostentation,  at  his  prayers 
Ne'er  so  impetuously,  hee  stood  and  laught. 
Saw  hee  a  great  man  never  so  insulting,  365 

Severely  inflicting,  gravely  giving  lawes. 
Not  for  their  good,  but  his,  hee  stood  and  laught. 
Saw  hee  a  youthfull  widow 
Never  so  weeping,  wringing  of  her  hands 
For  her  lost  lord,  still  the  philosopher  laught.    370 
Now  whether  hee   suppos'd   all  these  present- 
ments 
Were  onely  maskeries,  and  wore  false  faces, 
Or  else  were  simply  vaine,  I  take  no  care  ; 
But  still  hee  laught,  how  grave  soere  they  were. 
Gui.  And    might   right  well,  my   Clermont ; 
and  for  this  375 

359-61  Heard  .  .  .  wares.  So  punctuated  by  ed.  5  Q,  Heard 
hee  a  trades-man  swearing  |  Never  so  thriftily  (selling  of  his 
wares). 


190     Ketjmge  of  Bu00p  HD'^mbois  [act  i. 

Vertuous  digression  we  will  thanke  the  scofFes 
Of  vicious  Monsieur.    But  now  for  the  maine 

point 
Of  your  late  resolution  for  revenge 
Of  your  slaine  friend. 

Cler.  I  have  here  my  challenge, 

Which  I  will  pray  my  brother  Baligny  380 

To  beare  the  murtherous  Earle. 

Bal.  I  have  prepar'd 

Meanes   for  accesse   to    him,   through    all    his 
guard. 

Gui.  About  it  then,  my  worthy  Baligny, 
And  bring  us   the  successe. 

Bal.  I   will,  my  lord. 

Exeunt, 

[SCvENA    SeCUNDA. 

A  Room  in  Montsurry^ s  bouse. "j 

Tamyra  sola. 

Tamyra.   Revenge,  that  ever  red  sitt'st  in  the 
eyes 
Of  injur'd  ladies,  till  we  crowne  thy  browes 
With  bloudy  lawrell,  and  receive  from  thee 
Justice  for  all  our  honours  injurie  ; 
Whose  wings  none  flye  that  wrath  or  tyrannie       5 
Have  ruthlesse  made  and  bloudy,  enter  here, 

4  honours.    Emended  by  Phelps  ;   Q,  humors. 


Scene  II.]   ^t^itXl^t  Of  llBUfiffi;^  SD'^mljOtS      IQI 

Enter,  O  enter  !  and,  though  length  of  time 
Never  lets  any  scape  thy  constant  justice. 
Yet  now  prevent  that  length.   Flye,  flye,  and  here 
Fixe  thy  Steele  foot-steps  ;  here,  O  here,  where 

still  lo 

Earth  (mov'd  with  pittie)  yeelded  and  embrac'd 
My  loves  faire  figure,  drawne  in  his  deare  bloud, 
And  mark'd  the  place,  to  show  thee  where  was 

done 
The  cruell'st  murther  that  ere  fled  the  sunne. 
O  Earth  !  why  keep'st  thou  not  as  well  his  spirit,   15 
To  give  his  forme  life  ?  No,  that  was  not  earthly  ; 
That  (rarefying  the  thinne  and  yeelding  ayre) 
Flew  sparkling  up  into  the  sphaere  of  fire 
Whence  endlesse  flames  it  sheds  in  my  desire. 
Here  be  my  daily  pallet ;  here  all  nights  20 

That  can  be  wrested  from  thy  rivals  armes, 
O  my  deare  Bussy,  I  will  lye,  and  kisse 
Spirit  into  thy  bloud,  or  breathe  out  mine 
In  sighes,  and  kisses,  and  sad  tunes  to  thine. 

She  sings. 
Enter  Montsurry. 

Montsurry.    Still  on  this  hant  ?   Still  shall  adul- 
terous bloud  45 
Affect  thy  spirits  ?    Thinke,  for  shame,  but  this. 
This     bloud,    that     cockatrice-like     thus    thou 
brood'st. 

Enter  Montsurry.    Emended  by  all  editors  ;   Q,  Monsieur. 


192     Ketjenge  of  115tt00^  2D'^mboisf  [act  i. 

To  dry  is  to  breede  any  quench  to  thine. 
And  therefore  now  (if  onely  for  thy  lust 
A  little  cover'd  with  a  vaile  of  shame)  30 

Looke  out  for  fresh  life,  rather  then  witch-like 
Learne  to  kisse  horror,  and  with  death  engender. 
Strange  crosse  in  nature,  purest  virgine  shame 
Lies  in  the  bloud  as  lust  lyes  ;  and  together 
Many  times  mixe  too  ;  and  in  none  more  shame- 
full  35 
Then  in  the  shamefac't.    Who  can  then  distin- 
guish 
Twixt  their  affections  ;  or  tell  when  hee  meetes 
With  one  not  common  ?   Yet,  as  worthiest  poets 
Shunne  common  and  plebeian  formes  of  speech. 
Every  illiberall  and  affected  phrase,                         40 
To  clothe  their  matter,  and  together  tye 
Matter  and  forme  with  art  and  decencie ; 
So  worthiest  women  should  shunne  vulgar  guises. 
And  though  they  cannot  but  flye  out  for  change, 
Yet  modestie,  the  matter  of  their  lives,                  45 
Be  it  adulterate,  should  be  painted  true 
With  modest  out-parts  ;   what  they  should  doe 

still 
Grac'd  with  good  show,  though  deedes  be  ne'er 
so  ill. 
Tamy.    That  is  so  farre  from  all  yee  seeke 
of  us 

28   dry.    Emended  by  all  editors  ;   Q,  dye. 


Scene  II.]  IXetettge  of  Bug0i?  D'^mbois  193 

That  (though  your  selves   be  common  as  the 

ayre)  5° 

We  must  not  take  the  ayre,  wee  must  not  fit 
Our  actions  to  our  owne  affections  : 
But  as  geometricians  (you  still  say) 
Teach  that  no  lines,  nor  superficies, 
Doe  move  themselves,  but  still  accompanie  55 

The  motions  of  their  bodies  ;  so  poore  wives 
Must  not  pursue,  nor  have  their  owne  affec- 
tions. 
But  to  their  husbands  earnests,  and  their  jests, 
To  their  austerities  of  lookes,  and  laughters, 
(Though  ne'er  so  foolish  and  injurious)  60 

Like  parasites  and  slaves,  fit  their  disposures. 
Mont.    I  usde  thee  as  my  soule,  to  move  and 

rule  me. 
Tamy.    So    said   you,  when  you  woo'd.     So 
souldiers  tortur'd 
With  tedious  sieges  of  some  wel-wall'd  towne, 
Propound  conditions  of  most  large  contents,         65 
Freedome  of  lawes,  all  former  government ; 
But  having  once  set  foote  within  the  wals. 
And  got  the  reynes  of  power  into  their  hands. 
Then    doe   they  tyrannize  at  their  owne  rude 
swindges, 

52  affections.    Q,  afFectons. 

62  Mont.    Emended  here,   and  in  the   stage-directions  to  the 
end  of  the  Scene,  by  Shepherd,  Phelps  ;  Q,  Mons. 


194     Kebenge  of  llBusfs^  SD'^mbois;  [act  i. 

Seaze  all  their  goods,  their  liberties,  and  lives,      70 
And  make  advantage,  and  their  lusts,  their  lawes. 
Mont.    But  love  me,  and  performe  a  wifes 

part  yet. 
With  all  my  love  before,  I  sweare  forgivenesse. 
Tamy.    Forgivenesse  !   that  grace  you  should 

seeke  of  mee : 
These  tortur'd  fingers  and  these  stab'd-through 

armes  75 

Keepe  that  law  in  their  wounds  yet  unobserv'd, 
And  ever  shall. 

Mont.  Remember  their  deserts. 

Tarn.    Those  with  faire  warnings  might  have 

beene  reform'd. 
Not  these  unmanly  rages.    You  have  heard 
The  fiction  of  the  north  winde  and  the  sunne,     80 
Both  working  on  a  traveller,  and  contending 
Which  had  most  power  to  take  his  cloake  from 

him  : 
Which  when  the  winde  attempted,  hee   roar'd 

out 
Outragious  blasts  at  him  to  force  it  off\, 
That  wrapt  it  closer  on  :  when  the  calme  sunne  85 
(The  winde  once  leaving)  charg'd  him  with  still 

beames. 
Quiet  and  fervent,  and  therein  was  constant. 
Which  made  him  cast  off  both  his  cloake  and 

coate  ; 


Scene  II. ]   Ut^tXlQt  Of  llBUSffif^  SD'^ttlbois;      1 95 

Like  whom  should  men  doe.     If  yee  wish  your 

wives 
Should  leave   dislik'd  things,  seeke  it  not  with 

rage,  90 

For  that  enrages  ;  what  yee  give,  yee  have  : 
But    use    calme    warnings,    and    kinde    manly 

meanes, 
And  that  in  wives  most  prostitute  will  winne 
Not  onely  sure  amends,  but  make  us  wives 
Better  then  those  that  ne'er  led  faultie  lives.         95 
Enter  a  Souldier. 
Soldier.    My  lord. 
Mont.  How  now  ;  would  any  speake 

with  me  ? 
Sold.    I,  sir. 

Mont.  Perverse,  and  traiterous  miscreant ! 

Where  are  your  other  fellowes  of  my  guard  ? 
Have  I  not  told  you  I  will  speake  with  none 
But  Lord  Renel  ? 

Sold.  And  it  is  hee  that  stayes  you.  100 

Mont.    O,  is  it  he  ?    Tis  well  :  attend  him  in. 

\^Exit  SoIdier.'\ 
I  must  be  vigilant ;   the  Furies  haunt  mee. 
Doe  you  heare,  dame  ? 

Enter  Renel,  with  the  Souldier. 
Renel  \_aside,  to  the  Soldier~\ .    Be  true  now,  for 
your  ladies  injur'd  sake, 

100  it  is.    Ed.;   Q,  tis. 


196     Heijnige  of  315u0si^  SD'^mbois  [act  i. 

Whose   bountie  you   have    so   much   cause  to 

honour:  105 

For  her  respect  is  chiefe  in  this  designe. 
And  therefore  serve  it ;  call  out  of  the  way 
All  your  confederate  fellowes  of  his  guard, 
Till  Monsieur  Baligny  be  enter'd  here. 

Sold.    Upon  your  honour,  my  lord  shall  be  free  1 10 
From  any  hurt,  you  say  ? 

Ren.    Free   as  my  selfe.     Watch    then,  and 

cleare  his  entrie. 

Sold.    I  will  not  faile,  my  lord.      Exit  Souldier. 

Ren.  God  save  your  lordship  ! 

Mont.    My  noblest  Lord  Renel !   past  all  men 

welcome  ! 

Wife,  welcome  his  lordship.  Osculatur. 

Ren.  \to  Tarn.']  I  much  joy  115 

In  your  returne  here. 

Tamy.  You  doe  more  then  I. 

Mont.    Shee's  passionate  still,  to  thinke  we 
ever  parted 
By  my  too  sterne  injurious  jelousie. 

Ren.    Tis  well  your   lordship  will   confesse 
your  errour 
In  so  good  time  yet. 

Enter  Baligny,  with  a  challenge. 
Mont.  Death  !   who  have  wee  here  ?  120 

Ho  !   Guard  !  Villaines ! 

1 15-16.    Broken  in  2  it  lordship,  here,  I. 


Scene  II. ]  Hetjmge  of  115u0sf^  W^mhois  197 

Baligny.  Why  exclaime  you  so  ? 

Mont.  Negligent  trayters  !  Murther,  murther, 

murther ! 
Bal.    Y'are  mad.    Had  mine  entent  beene  so, 
like  yours, 
It  had  beene  done  ere  this. 

Ren.  Sir,  your  intent, 

And  action  too,  was  rude  to  enter  thus.  125 

Bal.    Y'are  a  decaid  lord  to  tell  me  of  rude- 
nesse. 
As  much  decaid  in  manners  as  in  meanes. 
Ren.    You  talke  of  manners,  that  thus  rudely 
thrust 
Upon  a  man  that's  busie  with  his  wife  ! 

Bal.    And  kept  your  lordship  then  the  dore  ? 
Ren.  The  dore  !  130 

Mont.  Sweet  lord,  forbeare.   Show,  show  your 
purpose,  sir. 
To  move  such  bold  feete  into  others  roofes. 
Bal.  This  is  my  purpose,  sir ;  from  Clermont 
D'Ambois 
I  bring  this  challenge. 

Mont.  Challenge  !    He  touch  none.      V 

Bal.    He  leave  it  here  then. 

Ren.  Thou  shalt  leave  thy  life  first.  135 

Mont.   Murther,  murther ! 

12.3    7^ are.    Emended  by  Shepherd,  Phelps  ;   Q,  Ye'are. 
134-36.    Broken  in  Q  at  first  challenge^  then,  murther,  get  off. 


198     Kcbenge  of  Wu&s^  W^mhois  [act  i. 

Ren.  Retire,  my  lord  ;  get  off. 

They  all  fight   and  Bal\ignj\  drives  in 
Mont  \_surrf\ . 
Hold,  or  thy  death  shall  hold  thee.    Hence,  my 
lord! 
Bal.  There  lye  the  chalenge. 

Exit  Mon  \tsurrj\ . 
Ren.  Was  not  this  well  handled  ? 

Ba/.  Nobly,  my  lord.    All  thankes. 

Exit  Bal\Jgny\ . 
Tamy.  He  make  him  reade  it. 

Exit  'Tamy\ra\. 
Ren.  This  was  a  sleight  well  maskt.    O  what 

is  man,  14.0 

Unlesse  he  be  a  politician  !  Exit. 


Finis  Actus  primi. 


Actus  secundi  Scjena  prima. 

[^  Room  at  the  Court.'^ 

Hefiry,  Baligny. 

Henry.  Come,  Baligny,  we  now  are  private ; 
say. 
What  service  bring'st  thou  ?  make  it  short ;  the 

Guise 
(Whose  friend  thou  seem'st)  is  now  in  Court, 

and  neare. 
And  may  observe  us. 

Baligny.  This,  sir,  then,  in  short. 

The    faction    of   the    Guise   (with    which    my 

policie,  5 

For  service  to  your  Highnesse,  seemes  to  joyne) 
Growes  ripe,  and  must  be  gather'd  into  holdj 
Of  which  my  brother  Clermont  being  a  part 
Exceeding  capitall,  deserves  to  have 
A  capitall  eye  on  him.    And  (as  you  may  lo 

With  best  advantage,  and  your  speediest  charge) 
Command  his  apprehension  :   which  (because 
The  Court,  you  know,  is  strong  in  his  defence) 
Wee  must  aske  country  swindge  and  open  fields. 
And  therefore  I  have  wrought  him  to  goe  downe  15 
To  Cambray  with  me  (of  which  government 


200    laebntge  of  Bu00^  W^mhois  [act  n. 

Your  Highnesse  bountie  made  mee  your  lieu- 
tenant), 
Where  when  I  have  him,  I  will  leave  my  house, 
And  faine  some  service  out  about  the  confines ; 
When,  in  the  meane  time,  if  you  please  to  give  20 
Command  to  my  lieutenant,  by  your  letters, 
To  traine  him  to  some  muster,  where  he  may 
(Much  to  his  honour)  see  for  him  your  forces 
Put  into  battaile,  when  hee  comes,  hee  may 
With  some  close  stratageme  be  apprehended  :       25 
For  otherwise  your  whole  powers  there  will  faile 
To  worke  his  apprehension  :   and  with  that 
My  hand  needes  never  be  discern'd  therein. 

Hen.   Thankes,  honest  Baligny. 

Ba/.  Your  Highnesse  knowes 

I  will  be  honest,  and  betray  for  you  30 

Brother  and  father ;   for  1  know  (my  lord) 
Treacherie  for  Kings  is  truest  loyaltie. 
Nor  is  to  beare  the  name  of  treacherie. 
But  grave,  deepe  policie.    All  acts  that  seeme 
111  in  particular  respects  are  good  35 

As  they  respect  your  universal  rule : 
As  in  the  maine  sway  of  the  Universe 
The  supreame  Rectors  generall  decrees, 
To    guard    the    mightie    globes    of    earth    and 

heaven. 
Since  they  make  good  that  guard  to  preservation  40 
Of  both  those  in  their  order  and  first  end, 


Scene  I]  Hetimge  of  Bu00^  SD'^mboi0  201 

No  mans  particular  (as  hee  thinkes)  wrong 
Must    hold   him   wrong'd;    no,   not  though  all 

mens  reasons, 
All  law,  all  conscience,  concludes  it  wrong. 
Nor  is  comparison  a  flatterer  45 

To  liken  you  here  to  the  King  of  Kings ; 
Nor  any  mans  particular  offence 
Against  the  worlds  sway,  to  offence  at  yours 
In  any  subject ;  who  as  little  may 
Grudge  at  their  particular  wrong,  if  so  it  seeme  50 
For  th'universall  right  of  your  estate. 
As,  being  a  subject  of  the  worlds  whole  sway 
As  well  as  yours,  and  being  a  righteous  man 
To  whom  heaven  promises  defence,  and  bless- 
ing, 
Brought  to  decay,  disgrace,  and  quite  defence- 

lesse,  55 

Hee   may  complaine  of  heaven    for   wrong  to 
him. 
Hen.   Tis  true :  the  simile  at  all  parts  holds, 
As  all  good  subjects  hold,  that  love  our  favour. 
Bal.   Which  is  our  heaven  here  ;  and  a  miserie 
Incomparable,  and  most  truely  hellish,  60 

To  live  depriv'd  of  our  Kings  grace  and  counte- 
nance. 
Without  which  best  conditions  are  most  cursed  : 
Life  of  that  nature,  howsoever  short, 
Is  a  most  lingering  and  tedious  life ; 


202    Kftjenge  of  15u00p  sr>'^mboi0  [act  n. 

Or  rather  no  life,  but  a  languishing,  65 

And  an  abuse  of  life. 

Hen.  Tis  well  conceited. 

Bal.  I  thought  it  not  amisse  to  yeeld  your 
Highnesse 
A  reason  of  my  speeches  ;  lest  perhaps 
You  might  conceive  I  flatter'd :  which  (I  know) 
Of  all  ils  under  heaven  you  most  abhorre.  70 

Hen.  Still  thou  art  right,  my  vertuous  Baligny, 
For  which  I  thanke  and  love  thee.    Thy  advise 
He  not  forget.    Haste  to  thy  government. 
And  carry  D'Ambois  with  thee.    So  farewell. 

Exit. 

Bal.  Your  Majestie  fare  ever  like  it  selfe.        75 
Enter  Guise. 

Guise.  My  sure  friend  Baligny ! 

Bal.  Noblest  of  princes  ! 

Gui.   How  stands  the  state  of  Cambray  ? 

Bal.  Strong,  my  lord, 

And  fit  for  service  :   for  whose  readinesse 
Your  creature,  Clermont    D'Ambois,  and   my 

selfe 
Ride  shortly  downe. 

Gut.  That  Clermont  is  my  love ;  80 

France  never  bred  a  nobler  gentleman 
For  all  parts ;  he  exceeds  his  brother  Bussy. 

Bal.  I,  my  lord  ? 


Scene  I]  Kebcixgc  of  115u8(0^  SD'^mbois  203 

Gui.  Farre  :   because  (besides  his  valour) 

Hee  hath  the  crowne  of  man  and  all  his  parts, 
Which  Learning  is ;  and  that  so  true  and  ver- 

tuous  85 

That  it  gives  power  to  doe  as  well  as  say 
What  ever  fits  a  most  accomplisht  man  ; 
Which  Bussy,  for  his  valours  season,  lackt ; 
And  so  was  rapt  with  outrage  oftentimes 
Beyond   decorum ;    where    this   absolute    Cler- 
mont, 90 
Though  (onely  for  his  naturall  zeale  to  right) 
Hee  will  be  fiery,  when  hee  sees  it  crost. 
And  in  defence  of  it,  yet  when  he  lists 
Hee  can  containe  that  fire,  as  hid  in  embers. 
Bal.    No  question,  hee's  a  true,  learn'd  gen- 
tleman.                                                             95 
Gui.    He  is  as  true  as  tides,  or  any  starre 
Is  in  his  motion ;  and  for  his  rare  learning, 
Hee  is  not  (as  all  else  are  that  seeke  knowledge) 
Of  taste  so  much  deprav'd  that  they  had  rather 
Delight  and  satisfie  themselves  to  drinke              loo 
Of  the  streame  troubled,  wandring  ne'er  so  farre 
From  the  cleare  fount,  then  of  the  fount  it  selfe. 
In  all,  Romes  Brutus  is  reviv'd  in  him. 
Whom  hee  of  industry  doth  imitate ; 
Or  rather,  as  great  Troys  Euphorbus  was            105 
After  Pithagoras,  so  is  Brutus,  Clermont. 
And,  were  not  Brutus  a  conspirator — 


204    Krtintge  of  Wus&^  S>'^mbot0  [act  h. 

Bal.  Conspirator,  my  lord  !     Doth  that  em- 
paire  him  ? 
Czesar  beganne  to  tyrannize ;  and  when  vertue, 
Nor  the  religion  of  the  Gods,  could  serve  no 

To  curbe  the  insolence  of  his  proud  lawes, 
Brutus  would  be  the  Gods  just  instrument. 
What  said  the  Princesse,  sweet  Antigone, 
In  the  grave  Greeke  tragedian,  when  the  ques- 
tion 
Twixt  her  and  Creon  is  for  lawes  of  Kings?      115 
Which  when  he  urges,  shee  replies  on  him  : 
Though  his  lawes  were  a  Kings,  they  were  not 

Gods ; 
Nor  would  shee  value  Creons  written  lawes 
With  Gods  unwrit  edicts,  since  they  last  not 
This  day  and  the  next,  but  every  day  and  ever,  120 
Where  Kings  lawes  alter  every  day  and  houre. 
And  in  that  change  imply  a  bounded  power. 
Gut.    Well,  let  us  leave  these  vaine  disputings 
what 
Is  to  be  done,  and  fall  to  doing  something. 
When  are  you  for  your  government  in  Cambray?  125 
Bal.    When  you  command,  my  lord. 
Gut.  Nay,  that's  not  fit. 

Continue  your  designements  with  the  King, 
With  all  your  service;  onely,  if  I  send. 
Respect  me  as  your  friend,  and  love  my  Cler- 
mont. 


Scene  I.]     KetjCHgC  Of  BUfi(0^  SD'^tttljOtg     205 

Bal.    Your  Highnesse  knowes  my  vowes. 

Gut.  I,  tis  enough.  130 

Exit  Guise.     Manet  BaI\Jgny\  . 
Bal.    Thus  must  wee  play  on  both  sides,  and 
thus  harten 
In  any  ill  those  men  whose  good  wee  hate. 
Kings  may  doe  what  they  list,  and  for  Kings, 

subjects, 
Eyther  exempt  from  censure  or  exception ; 
For,  as  no  mans  worth  can  be  justly 

iudff'd  'fLt).rix.<^vov  &e 

J        D  _  Trai/TOs,  &c. 

But  when  he   shmes    m  some  au-      impossible  est 
thoritie,  '^'"  "g"°'"''' 

„  1        ■   •         I         1  J  /T"  mcntem  ac  'vo- 

ho  no  authoritie  should  sutter  cen-      luntatem,  pu- 

Sure  usfjuam  in  Ma- 

But  by  a  man  of  more  authoritie.  gi^tratibus  ap- 

Great  vessels  mto  lesse  are  emptied  Sopho.  Antig. 

never. 
There's  a  redoundance  past  their  continent  ever.  140 
These  virtuosi  are  the  poorest  creatures  ; 
For  looke  how  spinners  weave  out  of  themselves 
Webs,  whose  strange   matter  none  before  can 

see; 
So  these,  out  of  an  unseene  good  in  vertue. 
Make  arguments  of  right  and  comfort  in  her,     145 
That  clothe  them  like  the  poore  web  of  a  spinner. 

'Afiiixavov    (misprinted    AvKxavov)    ■    ■    .    Antig.     In    left 
margin  of  Q. 


2o6    Hrtjenge  of  llBu00^  D'^mboig  [act  n. 

Enter  Clermont. 

Clermont.    Now,  to  my  challenge.   What's  the 

place,  the  weapon  ? 
Bal.    Soft,  sir !    let   first   your   challenge  be 

received. 
Hee  would  not  touch,  nor  see  it. 

Cler.  Possible ! 

How  did  you  then  ? 

Bal.  Left  it,  in  his  despight.        150 

But  when  hee  saw  mee  enter  so  expectlesse, 
To  heare  his  base  exclaimes  of  "  murther,  mur- 

ther," 
Made  mee  thinke  noblesse  lost,  in  him  quicke 

buried. 
Cler.    They  are  the  breathing  sepulchres   of 

noblesse  : 
No  trulier  noble  men  then  lions  pictures,  155 

Hung  up  for  signes,  are  lions.   Who  knowes  not 
That    lyons    the    more  soft    kept,   are       _        ... 

more  servile  t  degum,  eo 

And  looke  how  lyons  close  kept,  fed      ser-vHius. 

by  hand,  ^P'"'' 

Lose  quite  th'innative  fire  of  spirit  and  great- 

nesse 
That  lyons  free  breathe,  forraging  for  prey,         160 
And    grow   so  grosse  that    mastifes,  curs,  and 

mungrils 


Scene  I.]     MttttX^t  Of  BUfiffil^  SD'^ttlijOlg      207 

Have  spirit  to  cow  them :   so  our  soft  French 

Nobles 
Chain'd  up  in  ease  and  numbd  securitie 
(Their  spirits  shrunke  up  like  their  covetous  fists, 
And  never  opened  but  Domitian-like,  165 

And  all  his  base,  obsequious  minions 
When  they  were  catching  though  it  were  but 

flyes), 
Besotted  with  their  pezzants  love  of  gaine. 
Rusting  at  home,  and  on  each  other  preying. 
Are  for  their  greatnesse  but  the  greater  slaves,    170 
And  none  is  nobli^  but  who  scrapes  and  saves. 
Ba/.    Tis  base,  tis  base ;  and  yet  they  thinke 

them  high. 
C/er.    So  children  mounted  on  their  hobby- 
horse 
Thinke  they  are  riding,  when  with  wanton  toile 
They  beare  what  should  beare  them.    A  man 

may  well  ^7S 

Compare  them  to  those  foolish   great-spleen'd 

cammels, 
That  to  their  high  heads  beg'd  of  Jove  homes 

higher ; 
Whose  most  uncomely  and  ridiculous  pride 
When  hee  had  satisfied,  they  could  not  use, 
But  where  they  went  upright  before,  they  stoopt,  180 
And    bore   their   heads    much   lower   for    their 

homes  :  Simil[iter.] 


2o8    l^ebcnge  of  y&us&^  SD'^mbois;  [act  n. 

As  these  high  men  doe,  low  in  all  true  grace. 
Their  height  being  priviledge  to  all  things  base. 
And  as  the  foolish  poet  that  still  writ 
All  his  most  selfe-lov'd  verse  in  paper  royall,      185 
Or  partchment  rul'd  with  lead,  smooth'd  with 

the  pumice. 
Bound    richly    up,    and    strung    with    crimson 

strings ; 
Never  so  blest  as  when  hee  writ  and  read 
The  ape-lov'd  issue  of  his  braine ;  and  never 
But  joying  in  himselfe,  admiring  ever :  190 

Yet  in  his  workes  behold  hirri,  and  hee  show'd 
Like  to  a  ditcher.    So  these  painted  men, 
All  set  on  out-side,  looke  upon  within. 
And  not  a  pezzants  entrailes  you  shall  finde 
More  foule  and   mezel'd,  nor  more  sterv'd  of 

minde.  195 

BaL    That   makes  their  bodies   fat.    I   faine 

would  know 
How  many  millions  of  our  other  Nobles 
Would  make  one  Guise.    There  is  a  true  tenth 

Worthy, 
Who,  did  not  one  act  onely  blemish  him  — 
Ckr.    One  act !   what  one  ? 

BaL  One  that  (though  yeeres  past  done)  200 

Stickes  by  him  still,  and  will  distaine  him  ever. 
Cler.    Good  heaven  !  wherein  ?  what  one  act 

can  you  name 


Scene  I.]   Kctjeuge  of  Bus^s;^  SD'^mbois  209 

Suppos'd  his  staine  that  He  not  prove  his  luster  ? 

Bal.    To  satisfie  you,  twas  the  Massacre. 

Cler.  The  Massacre  !    I  thought  twas  some 
such  blemish.  205 

Bal.    O,  it  was  hainous  ! 

Cler.  To  a  brutish  sense, 

But  not  a  manly  reason.    Wee  so  tender 
The  vile  part  in  us  that  the  part  divine 
We  see  in  hell,  and  shrinke  not.    Who  was  first 
Head  of  that  Massacre  ? 

Bal.  The  Guise. 

Cler.  Tis  nothing  so.  210 

Who  was  in  fault  for  all  the  slaughters  made 
In  Ilion,  and  about  it  ?    Were  the  Greekes  ? 
Was  it  not  Paris  ravishing  the  Queene 
Of  Lacaedemon  ;  breach  of  shame  and  faith. 
And  all  the  lawes  of  hospitalitie?  215 

This  is  the  beastly  slaughter  made  of  men. 
When    truth  is   over-throwne,  his    lawes  cor- " 

rupted ; 
When  soules  are  smother'd  in  the  flatter'd  flesh, 
Slaine  bodies  are  no  more  then  oxen  slaine. 

Bal.    Differ  not  men  from  oxen  ? 

Cler.  Who  sayes  so  ?  220 

But  see  wherein  ;   in  the  understanding  rules 
Of  their  opinions,  lives,  and  actions  ; 
In  their  communities  of  faith  and  reason. 
Was  not  the  wolfe  that  nourisht  Romulus 


210    Krbenge  of  Wuii&^  W^mhois  [act  h. 

More  humane    then  the  men  that  did  expose 

him  ?  225 

Bai.  That  make's  against  you. 
Cler.  Not,  sir,  if  you  note 

That  by  that  deede,  the  actions  difference  make 
Twixt  men  and  beasts,  and  not  their  names  nor 

formes. 
Had  faith,  nor  shame,  all  hospitable  rights 
Beene  broke  by  Troy,  Greece  had  not  made 

that  slaughter.  230 

Had  that  beene  sav'd  (sayes  a  philosopher) 
The  Iliads  and  Odysses  had  beene  lost. 
Had  Faith  and  true  Religion  beene  prefer'd. 
Religious  Guise  had  never  massacerd. 

Bal.   Well,  sir,  I  cannot,  when  I  meete  with 
you,  235 

But  thus  digresse  a  little,  for  my  learning. 
From  any  other  businesse  I  entend. 
But  now  the  voyage  we  resolv'd  for  Cambray, 
I  told  the  Guise,  beginnes;  and  wee  must  haste. 
And  till  the  Lord  Renel  hath  found  some  meane24o 
(Conspiring  with  the  Countesse)  to  make  sure 
Your  sworne  wreake  on  her  husband,  though 

this  fail'd. 
In  my  so  brave  command  wee'll  spend  the  time. 
Sometimes  in  training  out  in  skirmishes 
And  battailes  all  our  troopes  and  companies  ;      245 
And  sometimes  breathe  your  brave  Scotch  run- 
ning horse, 


Scene  I]     Ut^tXl^t  Of  llBUfiftf^  SD'^mbOt0      2  1 1 

That  great  Guise  gave  you,  that  all  th'horse  in 

France 
Farre  over-runnes  at  every  race  and  hunting 
Both  of  the  hare  and  deere.    You  shall  be  honor'd 
Like  the  great  Guise  himselfe,  above  the  King.  250 
And  (can  you  but  appease  your  great-spleen'd 

sister 
For  our  delaid  wreake  of  your  brothers  slaugh- 
ter) 
At  all  parts  you'll  be  welcom'd  to  your  wonder. 
Cler.   He  see  my  lord  the  Guise  againe  before 
Wee  take  our  journey  ? 

Ba/.  O,  sir,  by  all  meanes;255 

You  cannot  be  too  carefull  of  his  love, 
That  ever  takes  occasion  to  be  raising 
Your  virtues  past  the  reaches  of  this  age, 
And   rankes   you   with  the  best    of   th'ancient 

Romanes. 
Cler.   That  praise  at  no  part  moves  mee,  but 

the  worth  260 

Of  all  hee  can  give  others  spher'd  in  him. 
Bal.   Hee  yet  is  thought  to  entertaine  strange 

aymes. 
Cler.   He    may    be    well ;    yet    not,    as    you 

thinke,  strange. 
His  strange  aymes  are  to  crosse  the  common 

custome 
Of  servile  Nobles  ;   in  which  hee's  so  ravisht,    265 


2 1 2    Kebf nfic  of  Bus0^  2r>'^mbot0  [act  h. 

That  quite  the  earth  he  leaves,  and  up  hee  leapes 
On  Atlas   shoulders,  and  from    thence    lookes 

downe. 
Viewing  how  farre  off  other  high  ones  creepe  ; 
Rich,  poore  of  reason,  wander  ;  all  pale  looking, 
And  trembling  but  to  thinke  of  their  sure  deaths,  270 
Their  lives  so  base    are,  and  so  rancke   their 

breaths. 
Which  I  teach   Guise  to   heighten,  and  make 

sweet 
With    lifes    deare    odors,    a    good    minde    and 

name ; 
For  which  hee  onely  loves  me,  and  deserves 
My  love  and  life,  which  through  all  deaths  I 

vow  :  275 

Resolving  this  (what  ever  change  can  be) 
Thou  hast  created,  thou  hast  ruinde  mee.    Exit. 


Finis  Actus  secundi. 


Actus  tertii  Sc^na  prima. 

\_A  Parade-Ground  near  Cambrai.'\ 

A  march  of  Captames  over  the  Stage. 

Maillard,   Chalon,  Aumall followi7ig  with  Souldiers. 

Maillard.   These  troopes  and  companies  come 
in  with  wings  : 

So  many  men,  so  arm'd,  so  gallant  horse, 

I  thinke  no  other  government  in  France 

So  soone  could  bring  together.    With  such  men 

Me  thinkes  a  man   might  passe  th'insulting  Pil- 
lars 

Of  Bacchus  and  Alcides. 

Chalon.  I  much  wonder 

Our     Lord     Lieutenant    brought     his     brother 
downe 

To  feast  and  honour  him,  and  yet  now  leaves 
him 

At  such  an  instance. 

Mail.  Twas  the  Kings  command  ; 

For  whom  he  must  leave  brother,  wife,  friend, 
all  things. 
Aumale.   The    confines    of   his    government, 
whose  view 

Is  the  pretext  of  his  command,  hath  neede 

Of  no  such  sbdaine  expedition. 


214  Hefentge  of  115usf0^  SD'^mbois;  [act  m. 

Mail.  Wee  must  not  argue  that.    The  Kings 
command 
Is  neede  and  right  enough  :  and  that  he  serves,     15 
(As  all  true  subjects  should)  without  disputing. 

Chal.   But  knowes  not  hee  of  your  command 
to  take 
His  brother  Clermont  ? 

Mail.  No  :  the  Kings  will  is 

Expressely  to  conceale  his  apprehension 
From  my  Lord  Governour.    Observ'd  yee  not  ?  20 
Againe  peruse  the  letters.    Both  you  are 
Made  my  assistants,  and  have  right  and  trust 
In  all  the  waightie  secrets  like  my  selfe. 

Aum.  Tis  strange  a  man  that  had,  through 
his  life  past. 
So  sure  a  foote  in  vertue  and  true  knowledge        25 
As  Clermont  D'Ambois,  should  be  now  found 

tripping, 
And  taken  up  thus,  so  to  make  his  fall 
More  steepe  and  head-long. 

Mail.  It  is  Vertues  fortune. 

To  keepe  her  low,  and  in  her  proper  place  ; 
Height  hath  no  roome  for  her.    But  as  a  man      30 
That  hath  a  fruitful!  wife,  and  every  yeere 
A  childe  by  her,  hath  every  yeere  a  month 
To   breathe  himselfe,  where  hee  that  gets  no 

childe 
Hath  not  a  nights  rest  (if  he  will  doe  well)  ; 


Scene  I]  Krbeuge  of  315usfsi^  SD'^mboig  215 

So,  let  one  marry  this  same  barraine  Vertue,         35 
She  never  lets  him  rest,  where  fruitfull  Vice 
Spares  her  rich  drudge,  gives  him  in  labour  breath, 
Feedes  him  with  bane,  and  makes  him  fat  with 
death. 
Chal.   I  see  that  good  lives  never  can  secure 
Men  from  bad  livers.    Worst  men  will  have  best  40 
As  ill  as  they,  or  heaven  to  hell  they'll  wrest. 

Jum.  There  was  a  merit  for  this,  in  the  fault 
That   Bussy  made,  for  which  he  (doing   pen- 
nance) 
Proves  that  these   foule    adulterous   guilts  will 

runne 
Through  the  whole  bloud,  which  not  the  cleare 

can  shunne.  45 

Mail.   He  therefore  take  heede  of  the  bastard- 
ing 
Whole  innocent  races  ;  tis  a  fearefuU  thing. 
And  as  I  am  true  batcheler,  I  sweare. 
To  touch  no  woman  (to  the  coupling  ends) 
Unlesse  it  be  mine  owne  wife  or  my  friends ;       50 
I  may  make  bold  with  him. 

Jum.  Tis  safe  and  common. 

The    more   your    friend   dares   trust,   the   more 

deceive  him. 
And  as  through  dewie  vapors  the  sunnes  forme 
Makes  the  gay  rainebow  girdle  to  a  storme, 
So  in  hearts  hollow,  friendship  (even  the  sunne    55 


21 6   Mrbengc  ot  y&u5&^  HD'^mboi0  [act  m. 

To  all  good  growing  in  societie) 

Makes  his  so  glorious  and  divine  name  hold 

Collours  for  all  the  ill  that  can  be  told. 

Trumpets  within. 

Mail.   Harke  !   our  last  troopes  are  come. 

Chal.     (Drums  beate.)     Harke!  our  last  foote. 

Mail.   Come,    let    us    put     all    quickly    into 

battaile,  60 

And  send  for  Clermont,  in  whose  honour  all 
This  martiall  preparation  wee  pretend, 

Chal.   Wee  must  bethinke  us,  ere  wee  appre- 
hend him, 
(Besides  our  maine  strength)  of  some  stratageme 
To  make  good  our  severe  command  on  him,         65 
As  well  to  save  blood  as  to  make  him  sure  : 
For  if  hee  come  on  his  Scotch  horse,  all  France 
Put  at  the  heeles  of  him  will  faile  to  take  him. 

Mail.   What   thinke  you  if  wee  should  dis 
guise  a  brace 
Of  our  best  souldiers  in  faire  lackies  coates,  70 

And  send  them  for  him,  running  by  his  side. 
Till  they  have  brought  him  in  some  ambuscado 
We  close  may  lodge  for  him,  and  sodainely 
Lay  sure  hand  on  him,  plucking  him  from  horse  ? 

Jum.  It  must  be  sure  and  strong  hand;  for 
if  once  75 

Trumpets  ivithin.    Drums  heate.    In  Q  these   directions  follow 
instead  of  precede  1.  59. 


Scene  I]   Eetjeuge  of  y&u$$y>  SD'^mbois  217 

Hee  feeles  the  touch  of  such  a  stratageme, 
Tis  not  the  choicest  brace  of  all  our  bands 
Can  manacle  or  quench  his  fiery  hands. 

Mail.   When  they  have  seaz'd  him,  the  am- 
bush shal  make  in. 
Juffi.   Doe   as    you    please ;     his    blamelesse 

spirit  deserves  80 

(I  dare  engage  my  life)  of  all  this,  nothing. 
Chal.   Why  should  all  this  stirre  be,  then  ? 
j^um.  Who  knowes  not 

The  bumbast  politic  thrusts  into  his  gyant, 
To  make  his  wisedome  seeme  of  size  as  huge. 
And  all  for  sleight  encounter  of  a  shade,  85 

So  hee  be  toucht,  hee  would  have  hainous  made? 
Mail.   It    may    be    once    so ;    but     so    ever, 
never. 
Ambition  is  abroad,  on  foote,  on  horse  ; 
Faction  chokes  every  corner,  streete,  the  Court ; 
Whose   faction   tis  you  know,  and  who  is  held  90 
The   fautors   right  hand  :   how  high  his  aymes 

reach 
Nought  but  a  crowne  can  measure.    This  must 

fall 
Past  shadowes  waights,  and  is  most  capitall. 
Cbal.  No  question ;    for  since  hee   is   come 
to  Cambray, 
The  malecontent,  decaid  Marquesse  Renel,  95 

Is  come,  and  new  arriv'd  ;   and  made  partaker 


2i8   Mfbenge  of  Wn$$^  SD'^mbois  [act  m. 

Of  all  the  entertaining  showes  and  feasts 

That  welcom'd  Clermont  to  the  brave  virago, 

His  manly  sister.    Such  w^ee  are  esteem'd 

As  are  our  consorts.      Marquesse  malecontent    loo 

Comes  where  hee  knowes  his  vaine  hath  safest 

vent. 
Mail.   Let  him  come  at  his  will,  and  goe  as 

free ; 
Let  us  ply  Clermont,  our  whole  charge  is  hee. 

Exeunt. 

[Sc^NA  Secunda. 

^  Room  in  the  Governor^ j  Castle  at  Cambrai.'^ 

Enter  a  Gentleman  Usher  before  Clermont :  Renel, 
Charlotte,  with  two  women  attendants,  with  others  : 
showes  having  past  within. 

Charlotte.   This   for  your  lordships  welcome 
into  Cambray. 

Renel.   Noblest  of  ladies,  tis  beyond  all  power 
(Were  my  estate  at  first  full)  in  my  meanes 
To  quit  or  merit. 

Clermont.  You  come  something  latter 

From  Court,  my  lord,  then  I  :   and  since  newes 

there  5 

Is  every  day  encreasing  with  th'affaires. 
Must  I  not  aske  now,  what  the  newes  is  there  ? 

Exeunt.    Q,  Exit. 


Scene  II.]   MebeHge  Of  BU00^  SD'^ttlbOtS     2l9 

Where  the  Court  lyes  ?   what    stirre  ?   change  ? 

what  avise 
From  England,  Italic  ? 

Ren.  You  must  doe  so, 

If  you'll  be  cald  a  gentleman  well  quallificd,         ^° 
And  wcare    your  time  and  wits   in   those   dis- 
courses. 
Cler.  The    Locrian    princes   therefore   were 

brave  rulers  ; 
For  whosoever  there  came  new  from  countrie. 
And  in  the  citie  askt,  "  What   newes  ?  "   was 

punisht  : 
Since  commonly  such  braines  are  most  delighted  ^S 
With  innovations,  gossips  tales,  and  mischiefes. 
But  as  of  lyons  it  is  said  and  eagles. 
That,  when  they  goe,  they  draw  their  seeres  and 

tallons 
Close  up,  to  shunne  rebating  of  their  sharpnesse: 
So  our  wits  sharpnesse,  which  wee  should  employ  2.0 
In  noblest  knowledge,  wee  should   never  waste 
In  vile  and  vulgar  admirations. 

Ren.   Tis  right  ;    but  who,  save  onely  you, 

performes  it. 
And  your  great  brother  ?  Madame,  where  is  he? 
Char.   Gone,  a  day  since,  into  the  countries 

confines,  ^5 

To  see  their  strength,  and  readinesse  for  service. 

12  Rulers.    Shepherd,  Phelps  ;   Q,  Rubers. 


220  l^eijf nge  of  115u00^  SD'^mboig  [acthi. 

Ren.   Tis   well ;   his    favour  with    the    King 
hath  made  him 
Most  worthily  great,  and  live  right  royally. 
Cler.   I :   would  hee  would  not  doe  so  !   Hon- 
our never 
Should  be  esteem'd  with  wise  men  as  the  price   30 
And  value  of  their  virtuous  services, 
But  as  their  signe  or  badge ;    for  that  bewrayes 
More  glory  in  the  outward  grace  of  goodnesse 
Then  in  the  good  it  selfe;  and  then  tis  said, 
Who  more  joy  takes  that  men  his  good  advance     35 
Then  in  the  good  it  selfe,  does  it  by  chance. 
Char.   My  brother  speakes  all  principle.  What 
man 
Is    mov'd    with   your    soule  ?   or   hath    such    a 

thought 
In  any  rate  of  goodnesse  ? 

Cler.  Tis  their  fault. 

We  have  examples  of  it,  cleare  and  many,  40 

Demetrius  Phalerius,  an  orator. 
And  (which  not  oft  meete)  a  philosopher, 
So  great  in  Athens  grew  that  he  erected 
Three  hundred  statues  of  him  ;  of  all  which. 
No  rust  nor  length  of  time  corrupted  one ;  45 

But  in  his  life  time  all  were  overthrowne. 
And  Demades  (that  past  Demosthenes 
For  all  extemporall  orations) 
Erected  many  statues,  which  (he  living) 


Scene  II  ]  Ketjcuge  of  315u00^  SD'^mbois   221 

Were  broke,  and  melted  into  chamber-pots.  50 

Many   such   ends    have    fallen  on  such  proud 

honours. 
No  more  because  the  men  on  whom  they  fell 
Grew  insolent  and  left  their  vertues  state. 
Then   for   their  hugenesse,  that  procur'd  their 

hate  : 
And  therefore  little  pompe  in  men  most  great      55 
Makes  mightily  and  strongly  to  the  guard 
Of  what  they  winne  by  chance  or  just  reward. 
Great  and  immodest  braveries  againe, 
Like   statues    much    too    high    made    for    their 

bases. 
Are  overturn'd  as  soone  as  given  their  places.       60 

Enter  a  Messenger  with  a  Letter. 

Messenger.    Here  is  a  letter,  sir,  deliver'd  mee 
Now  at  the  fore-gate  by  a  gentleman. 

Cler.   What  gentleman  ? 

Mess.  Hee  would  not  tell  his  name  ; 

Hee  said,  hee  had  not  time  enough  to  tell  it. 
And  say  the  little  rest  hee  had  to  say.  65 

Cler.  That   was  a  merry  saying  ;    he   tooke 
measure 
Of  his  deare  time  like  a  most  thriftie  husband. 

Char.   What  newes  ? 

Cler.         Strange  ones,  and  fit  for  a  novation  ; 
Waightie,  unheard  of,  mischievous  enough. 

Ren.   Heaven  shield  !   what  are  they  ? 


222  Uetjenge  of  Busfg^  W^mhoia  [act  m. 

C/er.  Read  them,  good  my  lord.   70 

Ren.  "  You  are  betraid  into  this  countrie." 
Monstrous  ! 

Char.   How's  that  ? 

Cler.   Read  on. 

Ren.  "  Maillard,   your   brothers   Lieutenant, 
that  yesterday   invited  you   to  see  his  musters,  75 
hath  letters  and  stricict  charge  from  the  King  to 
apprehend  you." 

Char.  To  apprehend  him  ! 

Ren.    "  Your    brother    absents    himselfe    of 
purpose."  80 

Cler.  That's  a  sound  one. 

Char.   That's  a  lye. 

Ren.   "  Get  on  your  Scotch  horse,  and  retire 
to  your  strength;  you  know  where  it  is,  and 
there  it  expects  you.    Beleeve  this  as  your  best  85 
friend    had   sworne  it.     Fare-well   if  you   will. 
Anonymos."    What's  that  ? 

Cler.  Without  a  name. 

Char.   And   all   his   notice,   too,  without   all 
truth. 

Cler.  So  I  conceive  it,  sister :   ile  not  wrong    90 
My  well  knowne  brother  for  Anonymos. 

Char.   Some   foole   hath    put   this    tricke   on 
you,  yet  more 
T'uncover  your  defect  of  spirit  and  valour, 

74  your.    Ed.  ;   g,  you. 


Scene  II.]  Heijotge  of  llBufis:^  sr>'^mbot0  223 

First    showne    in    lingring    my   deare    brothers 

wreake. 
See  what  it  is  to  give  the  envious  world  95 

Advantage  to  diminish  eminent  virtue. 
Send  him  a  challenge.    Take  a  noble  course 
To  wreake  a  murther,  done  so  like  a  villaine. 

Cler.  Shall  we  revenge^  villanie  with  villanie. 

Char.  Is  it  not  equall  ? 

Cler.  Shall  wee  equall  be  with  villaines  ?  100 

Is  that  your  reason  ? 

Char.  Cowardise  evermore 

Flyes  to  the  shield  of  reason. 

Cler.  Nought  that  is 

Approv'd  by  reason  can  be  cowardise. 

Char.     Dispute,    when    you    should    fight  ! 
Wrong,  wreaklesse  sleeping, 
Makes  men  dye  honorlesse  ;   one  borne,  another  105 
Leapes  on  our  shoulders. 

Cler.  Wee  must  wreake  our  wrongs 

So  as  wee  take  not  more. 

Char.  One  wreakt  in  time 

Prevents  all  other.    Then  shines  vertue  most 
When  time  is  found  for  facts  ;  and  found,  not 
lost. 

Cler.  No  time  occurres  to  Kings,  much  lesse 

to  vertue  ;  no 

Nor  can  we  call  it  vertue  that  proceedes 


224  Kebenge  of  )15uS0^  SD'^mbois  [act  m. 

From  vicious  fury.    I  repent  that  ever 
(By  any  instigation  in  th'appearance 
My  brothers  spirit  made,  as  I  imagin'd) 
That  e'er  I  yeelded  to  revenge  his  murther.         115 
All  worthy  men  should  ever  bring  their  bloud 
To  beare  all  ill,  not  to  be  wreakt  with  good. 
Doe  ill  for  no  ill ;   never  private  cause 
Should  take  on  it  the  part  of  publike  lawes. 
Char.  A  D'Ambois  beare  in  wrong  so  tame 

a  spirit !  120 

Ren.   Madame,  be   sure  there   will   be  time 
enough 
For  all  the  vengeance  your  great  spirit  can  wish. 
The  course  yet  taken  is  allow'd  by  all. 
Which  being  noble,  and  refus'd  by  th'Earle, 
Now  makes  him  worthy  of  your  worst  advan- 
tage :  125 
And  I  have  cast  a  project  with  the  Countesse 
To  watch  a  time  when  all  his  wariest  guards 
Shall    not    exempt    him.    Therefore    give    him 

breath ; 
Sure  death  delaid  is  a  redoubled  death. 

Cler.   Good  sister,  trouble  not  your  selfe  with 
this:  130 

Take  other  ladyes  care  ;   practise  your  face. 
There's  the  chaste  matron,  Madame  Perigot, 
Dwels  not  farre  hence ;  He  ride  and  send  her  to 
you. 


Scene  II]    Vit^itXlS^t  Of  115U00^  SD'^tttboiS     225 

Shee  did  live  by  retailing  mayden-heads 

In  her  minoritie  ;  but  now  shee  deales  135 

In  whole-sale  altogether  for  the  Court. 

I  tell  you,  shee's  the  onely  fashion-monger, 

For  your  complexion,  poudring  of  your  haire, 

Shadowes,  rebatoes,  wires,  tyres,  and  such  trickes. 

That  Cambray  or,  I  thinke,  the  Court  affords.    140 

She  shall  attend  you,  sister,  and  with  these 

Womanly  practises  emply  your  spirit ; 

This  other  suites  you  not,  nor  fits  the  fashion. 

Though  shee   be  deare,  lay't  on,  spare   for  no 

cost ; 
Ladies  in  these  have  all  their  bounties  lost.  145 

Ren.   Madame,  you   see,  his    spirit  will   not 
checke 
At  any  single  danger,  when  it  stands 
Thus  merrily  firme  against  an  host  of  men, 
Threaten'd  to  be  [in]  armes  for  his  surprise. 
Char.    That's  a  meere   bugge-beare,  an   im- 
possible mocke.,  15° 
If  hee,  and  him  I  bound  by  nuptiall  faith, 
Had  not  beene  dull  and  drossie  in  performing 
Wreake   of  the  deare  bloud  of  my  matchlesse 

brother. 
What  Prince,  what  King,  which  of  the  desper- 

at'st  ruffings, 
Outlawes  in  Arden,  durst  have  tempted  thus       155 
One  of  our  bloud  and  name,  be't  true  or  false  ? 

149    in.    Added    by   ed.  155   Arden.   Q,  Acden. 


226  Hetjenge  of  51Bu00^  W^mhoin  [act  m. 

Cler.   This  is  not  caus'd  by  that ;  twill  be  as 
sure 
As  yet  it  is  not,  though  this  should  be  true. 

Char.  True,  tis  past  thought  false. 

Cler.  I  suppose  the  worst, 

Which  farre  I  am  from  thinking;  and  despise    i6o 
The  armie  now  in  battaile  that  should  act  it. 

[C/;tfr.]  I  would  not  let  my  bloud  up  to  that 
thought, 
But  it  should  cost  the  dearest  bloud  in  France. 

C/er.   Sweet  sister,  (oscu/atur)  farre  be  both  ofF 
as  the  fact 
Of  my  fain'd  apprehension. 

Char.  I  would  once  165 

Strip  off  my  shame  with  my  attire,  and  trie 
If  a  poore  woman,  votist  of  revenge. 
Would  not  performe  it  with  a  president 
To  all  you  bungling,  foggy-spirited  men. 
But  for  our  birth-rights  honour,  doe  not  mention  170 
One  syllable  of  any  word  may  goe 
To  the  begetting  of  an  act  so  tender 
And  full  of  sulphure  as  this  letters  truth  : 
It  comprehends  so  blacke  a  circumstance 
Not  to  be  nam'd,  that  but  to  forme  one  thought,  175 
It  is  or  can  be  so,  would  make  me  mad. 
Come,  my  lord,  you  and  I  will  fight  this  dreame 
Out  at  the  chesse. 

162    C^ar.     Q,  Cler. 


Scene  II. ]     ^t^^tXlQt  Of  )lBU0Sf^  'S^'^XtthoiSl    227 

Ren.  Most  gladly,  worthiest  ladie. 

Exeunt  Char  \lotte'\  and  Ren  \el'\ . 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Messenger.   Sir,  my  Lord   Governours  Lieu- 
tenant prayes 
Accesse  to  you. 

Cler.  Himselfe  alone  ? 

Mess.  Alone,  sir.    iSo 

Cler.   Attend  him  in.    (^Exit  Messenger.')   Now 
comes  this  plot  to  tryall ; 
I  shall  descerne  (if  it  be  true  as  rare) 
Some  sparkes  will  flye  from  his  dissembling  eyes. 
lie  sound  his  depth. 

Enter  Maillard  with  the  Messenger. 

Maillard.  Honour,  and  all  things  noble  ! 

Cler.   As     much     to     you,     good     Captaine. 
What's  th'afFaire  ?  igj 

Mail.  Sir,  the  poore  honour  we  can  adde  to  all 
Your  studyed  welcome  to  this  martiall  place, 
In  presentation  of  what  strength  consists 
My  lord  your  brothers  government,  is  readie. 
I  have  made  all  his  troopes  and  companies  190 

Advance  and  put  themselves  in  battailia. 
That  you  may  see  both  how  well  arm'd  they  are 
How  strong  is  every  troope  and  companie, 
How  ready,  and  how  well  prepar'd  for  service. 

Exeunt.    Q,  Exit. 


228  Metjcnge  of  llBusfs;^  2D'^mboi0  [act  m. 

Cler.  And  must  they  take  mee  ? 

Mail.  Take  you,  sir!   O  heaven  !i95 

Mas.  [aside,  /e  Clermont\ .    Beleeve  it,  sir,  his 

count'nance  chang'd  in  turning. 
Mail.   What  doe  you  meane,  sir  ? 
Cler.  If  you  have  charg'd  them, 

You    being   charg'd    your   selfe,  to   apprehend 

mee, 
Turne  not  your  face  ;  throw  not  your  lookes 
about  so. 
Mail.  Pardon    me,  sir.    You    amaze  me  to 
conceive  ^oo 

From  v^^hence  our  wils  to  honour  you  should 

turne 
To  such  dishonour  of  my  lord,  your  brother. 
Dare  I,  without  him,  undertake  your  taking  ? 
Cler.   Why  not  ?  by  your  direct  charge  from 

the  King. 
Mail.   By  my  charge  from  the  King  !   would 

he  so  much  205 

Disgrace  my  lord,  his  owne  Lieutenant  here, 
To  give  me  his  command  without  his  forfaite  ? 
Cler.  Acts  that  are  done  by  Kings,  are  not 
a'skt  why. 
He  not  dispute  the  case,  but  I  will  search  you. 
Mail.  Search  mee  !   for  what  ? 
Cler.  For  letters. 

Mail.  I  beseech  you,  210 


Scene  II.]  Utiitxi^t  of  1Bu&&^  W ^mhoi$  229 

Doe  not  admit  one  thought  of  such  a  shame 
To  a  commander. 

Ckr.  Goe  to  !   I  must  doo't. 

Stand,  and  be  searcht ;  you  know  mee. 

Mai/.  You  forget 

What  tis  to  be  a  captaine,  and  your  selfe. 

Cler.  Stand,  or  I  vow  to  heaven,  He  make 
you  lie,  ^15 

Never  to  rise  more. 

Afail.  If  a  man  be  mad. 

Reason  must  beare  him, 

Cler.  So  coy  to  be  searcht  ? 

Mail.   Sdeath,  sir,  use  a  captaine  like  a  carrier  ! 

Cler.   Come,  be  not   furious  ;    when  I  have 
done, 
You  shall  make  such  a  carrier  of  me,  220 

If't    be    your    pleasure:    you're    my    friend,   I 

know. 
And  so  am  bold  with  you. 

Mail.  You'll  nothing  finde 

Where  nothing  is. 

Cler,  Sweare  you  have  nothing. 

Mail.  Nothing  you  seeke,  I   sweare.    I  be- 
seech you. 
Know  I  desir'd  this  out  of  great  affection,  225 

To  th'end    my  lord    may  know  out    of  your 

witnesse 
His  forces  are  not  in  so  bad  estate 


230  Keijenge  of  )^u&&^  D'jambois  [act  m. 

As  hee  esteem'd  them  lately  in  your  hearing ; 
For  which   he   would    not    trust  me   with  the 

confines, 
But  went  himselfe  to  witnesse  their  estate.  230 

Cler.   I  heard  him   make  that  reason,  and  am 
sorie 
I  had  no  thought  of  it  before  I  made 
Thus  bold  with  you,  since  tis  such  ruberb  to  you. 
He  therefore  search  no  more.   If  you  are  charg'd 
(By  letters  from  the  King,  or  otherwise)  235 

To  apprehend  me,  never  spice  it  more 
With  forc'd  tearmes  of  your  love,  but  say :    I 

yeeld  ; 
Holde,  take    my   sword,  here ;    I  forgive  thee 

freely  ; 
Take  ;   doe  thine  office. 

Mail.         Sfoote  !  you  make  m'a  hang-man  ; 
By  all  my  faith  to  you,  there's  no  such  thing.     240 
C/er.  Your  faith  to  mee  ! 
Mail.  My  faith  to  God  ;   all's  one  : 

Who  hath  no  faith  to  men,  to  God  hath  none. 
Cler.   In  that  sense  I  accept  your  othe,  and 
thanke  you. 
I  gave  my  word  to  goe,  and  I  will  goe. 

Ex2(  Cler\mont\. 
Mail.   He  watch  you  whither. 

Exit  Mail[Jard'\. 
Mess,  If  hee  goes,  hee  proves  245 


Scene  III]  KftinTge  of  1Bu&&^  HD'^mboi0  231 

How  vaine  are  mens  fore  knowledges  of  things, 
When  heaven  strikes  blinde  their  powers  of  note 

and  use, 
And  makes  their  way  to  ruine  seeme  more  right 
Then  that  which  safetie  opens  to  their  sight. 
Cassandra's  prophecie  had  no  more  profit  250 

With  Troyes  blinde  citizens,  when   shee  fore- 

tolde 
Troyes  ruine ;  which,  succeeding,  made  her  use 
This  sacred  inclamation  :   "  God  "  (said  shee) 
"  Would  have  me  utter  things  uncredited  ; 
For  which  now  they  approve  what  I  presag'd  ;  255 
They  count  me  wise,  that  said  before,  I  rag'd." 

[Exit.'] 

[SciENA  Tertia. 

^  Camp  near  Cambrai.'\ 

Enter  Challon  with  two  Souldiers. 

Chalon.    Come,  souldiers  :    you    are  downe- 

wards  fit  for  lackies  ; 

Give  me  your  pieces,  and  take  you  these  coates, 

To  make  you  compleate  foot  men,  in  whose 

formes 
You   must  be  compleate    souldiers  :    you    two 

onely 
Stand  for  our  armie. 

i\st  Soldier. '\  That  were  much. 


232  IJctjmge  of  315u00t!  SD'^mbois;  [acthi. 

Chal.  Tis  true ;     5 

You  two  must  doe,  or  enter,  what  our  armie 
Is  now  in  field  for. 

2  \d  Sol.'^  I  see  then  our  guerdon 

Must  be  the  deede  it  selfe,  twill  be  such  honour. 

Chal.  What  fight  souldiers  most  for  ? 

i\st  &/.]  Honour  onely. 

Chal.  Yet  here  are  crownes  beside. 

Amho.  We  thanke  you,  Captaine.   10 

2  \d  SqIT^    Now,  sir,  how  show  wee  ? 

Chal.  As  you  should  at  all  parts. 

Goe  now  to  Clermont   D'Ambois,  and  informe 

him. 
Two  battailes  are  set  ready  in  his  honour, 
And  stay  his  presence  onely  for  their  signall. 
When  they  shall  joyne ;  and  that,  t'attend  him 

hither  15 

Like  one  wee  so  much  honour,  wee  have  sent 
him  — 

i\st  Sol^    Us  two  in  person. 

C%al.  Well,  sir,  say  it  so ; 

And  having  brought  him  to  the  field,  when  I 
Fall  in  with  him,  saluting,  get  you  both 
Of  one  side  of  his  horse,  and  plucke  him  downe,  20 
And  I  with  th'ambush  laid  will  second  you. 

/  \st  Sol.'\    Nay,  we  shall  lay  on  hands  of  too 
much  strength 
To  neede  your  secondings. 


Scene IV.]  Ketietxge  of  115u0s;^  SD'^tttboig  233 

2  \d  &/,]  I  hope  we  shall. 

Two  are  enough  to  encounter  Hercules. 

Chal.  Tis  well  said,  worthy  souldiers ;  hast, 
and  hast  him.  \Exeunt.'\   25 


[SC^NA    QUARTA. 

A  Room  in  the  Governor's  Castle  at  Cambrai.'] 
Enter  Clermont,  Maillard  close  following  him. 
Clermont.   My  Scotch  horse  to  their  armie  — 
Maillard.  Please  you,  sir  ? 

Cler.   Sdeath  !   you're  passing  diligent. 
Mail.  Of  my  soule, 

Tis  onely  in  my  love  to  honour  you 
With  what  would  grace  the   King :   but  since 

I  see 
You  still  sustaine  a  jealous  eye  on  mee. 
He  goe  before. 

Cler.  Tis  well ;   He  come  ;   my  hand. 

Mail.   Your  hand,  sir  !    Come,  your  word  ; 

your  choise  be  us'd.  Exit. 

Clermont  solus. 

Cler.   I  had  an  aversation  to  this  voyage. 
When  first  my  brother  mov'd  it,  and  have  found 
That  native  power  in  me  was  never  vaine; 
Yet  now  neglected  it.    I  wonder  much 
At  my  inconstancie  in  these  decrees 


2  34   Hebrngr  of  515u0s!^  D'^mbois;   [act  hi. 

I  every  houre  set  downe  to  guide  my  life. 

When  Homer  made  Achilles  passionate, 

Wrathfull,  revengefull,  and  insatiate  15 

In  his  affections,  what  man  will  denie 

He  did  compose  it  all  of  industrie 

To  let  men  see  that  men  of  most  renowne, 

Strong'st,  noblest,  fairest,  if  they  set  not  downe 

Decrees  within  them,  for  disposing  these,  20 

Of  judgement,  resolution,  uprightnesse. 

And  certaine  knowledge  of  their  use  and  ends, 

Mishap  and  miserie  no  lesse  extends 

To  their  destruction,  with  all  that  they  pris'd, 

Then  to  the  poorest  and  the  most  despis'd  ?         25 

Enter  Renel. 

Renel.    Why,  how  now,  friend,  retir'd  !   take 
heede  you  prove  not 
Dismaid  with  this  strange  fortune.    All  observe 

you  : 
Your    government's    as     much    markt    as    the 

Kings. 
What  said  a  friend  to  Pompey  ? 

Cler.  What  ? 

Ren.  The  people 

Will  never  know,  unlesse  in  death  thou  trie,        30 
That  thou  know'st  how  to  beare  adversitie. 

Cler.    I  shall  approve  how  vile  I  value  feare 
Of  death  at  all  times  ;  but  to  be  too  rash. 
Without  both  will  and  care  to  shunne  the  worst. 


Scene  IV]  HeiJCHge  of  315u0g^  SD'^ttiboig   235 

(It  being  in  power  to  doe  well  and  with  cheere)   35 
Is  stupid  negligence  and  worse  then  feare. 
Ren.    Suppose  this  true  now. 
Cler.  No,  I  cannot  doo't. 

My  sister  truely  said,  there  hung  a  taile 
Of  circumstance  so  blacke  on  that  supposure. 
That  to  sustaine  it  thus  abhorr'd  our  mettall.       40 
And  I  can  shunne  it  too,  in  spight  of  all, 
Not    going    to    field ;    and   there   to,   being   so 

mounted 
As  I  will,  since  I  goe. 

Ren,  You  will  then  goe  ? 

Cler.    I  am  engag'd   both  in  my  word   and 
hand. 
But  this  is  it  that  makes  me  thus  retir'd,  45 

To  call  my  selfe  t'account,  how  this  affaire 
Is  to  be  manag'd,  if  the  worst  should  chance  : 
With  which  I  note,  how  dangerous  it  is 
For  any  man  to  prease  beyond  the  place 
To  which  his  birth,  or  meanes,  or  knowledge 

ties  him,  50 

For  my  part,  though  of  noble  birth,  my  birth- 
right 
Had  little  left  it,  and  I  know  tis  better 
To  live  with  little,  and  to  keepe  within 
A  mans  owne  strength  still,  and  in   mans  true 

end. 
Then  runne  a  mixt  course.    Good  and  bad  hold 

never  55 


236   lactjmge  of  llBufiis!)?  2D'^mboi0  [actih. 

Any  thing  common  ;  you  can  never  finde 
Things    outward   care,   but    you    neglect   your 

minde. 
God  hath  the  whole  world  perfect  made  and 

free  ; 
His  parts  to  th'use  of  th' All.    Men,  then,  that  are 
Parts  of  that  All,  must,  as  the  generall  sway         60 
Of  that  importeth,  willingly  obay 
In  every  thing  without  their  power  to  change. 
Hee  that,  unpleas'd  to  hold  his  place,  will  range. 
Can  in  no  other  be  contain'd  that's  fit. 
And  so  resisting  th'All  is  crusht  with  it :  65 

But  he  that  knowing  how  divine  a  frame 
The  whole  world  is,  and  of  it  all  can  name 
(Without  selfe-flatterie)  no  part  so  divine 
As  hee  himselfe ;  and  therefore  will  confine 
Freely  his  whole  powers  in  his  proper  part,  70 

Goes   on   most    God-like.    Hee   that  strives 

t'invert 
The  Universals  course  with  his  poore  way. 
Not  onely  dust-like  shivers  with  the  sway. 
But  crossing  God  in  his  great  worke,  all  earth 
Beares  not  so  cursed  and  so  damn'd  a  birth.  75 

Ren.    Goe  on  ;  lie  take  no  care  what  comes 

of  you  ; 
Heaven  will  not  see  it  ill,  how  ere  it  show. 
But  the  pretext  to  see  these  battailes  rang'd 
Is  much  your  honour. 

Cler.  As  the  world  esteemes  it. 


Scene iv]  Ketjeuge of  115u00^ SD'^mbots  237 

But  to  decide  that,  you  make  me  remember  80 

An  accident  of  high  and  noble  note, 

And  fits  the  subject  of  my  late  discourse 

Of  holding  on  our  free  and  proper  way. 

I  over-tooke,  comming  from  Italic, 

In  Germanic  a  great  and  famous  Earle  85 

Of  England,  the  most  goodly  fashion'd  man 

I  ever  saw ;   from  head  to  foote  in  forme 

Rare  and  most  absolute  ;  hee  had  a  face 

Like  one  of  the  most  ancient  honour'd  Romanes 

From  whence  his  noblest  familie  was  deriv'd  ;      90 

He  was  beside  of  spirit  passing  great, 

Valiant,  and  learn'd,  and  liberall  as  the  sunne. 

Spoke  and  writ  sweetly,  or  of  learned  subjects, 

Or  of  the  discipline  of  publike  weales  ; 

And    t'was    the   Earle   of  Oxford :   and    being 

offer'd  95 

At  that  time,  by  Duke  Cassimere,  the  view 
Of  his  right  royall  armie  then  in  field, 
Refus'd  it,  and  no  foote  was  mov'd  to  stirre 
Out  of  his  owne  free  fore-determin'd  course. 
I,  wondring  at  it,  askt  for  it  his  reason,  100 

It  being  an  offer  so  much  for  his  honour. 
Hee,  all  acknowledging,  said  t'was  not  fit 
To  take  those  honours  that  one  cannot  quit. 

Ren.    Twas  answer'd  like  the  man  you  have 
describ'd. 

Cler.    And  yet  he  cast  it  onely  in  the  way,     105 
To  stay  and  serve  the  world.    Nor  did  it  fit 


238   Hfbenge  of  )15us:0^  H>'0mboi0  [actih. 

His  owne  true  estimate  how  much  it  waigh'd; 

For  hee  despis'd  it,  and  esteem'd  it  freer 

To  keepe  his  owne  way  straight,  and  swore  that 

hee 
Had  rather  make  away  his  whole  estate  no 

In  things  that  crost  the  vulgar  then  he  would 
Be  frozen  up  stifFe  (like  a  Sir  John  Smith, 
His  countrey-man)  in  common  Nobles  fashions; 
Affecting,  as't  the  end  of  noblesse  were, 
Those  servile  observations. 

Ren.  It  was  strange.         115 

.  Cler.    O  tis  a  vexing  sight  to  see  a  man. 
Out  of  his  way,  stalke  proud  as  hee  were  in  ; 
Out  of  his  way,  to  be  officious, 
Observant,  wary,  serious,  and  grave, 
Fearefull,  and  passionate,  insulting,  raging,  120 

Labour  with  iron  flailes  to  thresh  downe  feathers 
Flitting  in  ayre. 

Ren.  What  one  considers  this, 

Of  all  that  are  thus  out  ?   or  once  endevours, 
Erring,  to  enter  on  mans  right-hand  path  ? 
Cler.    These  are  too  grave   for  brave  wits ; 

give  them  toyes  ;  i^S 

Labour  bestow'd  on  these  is  harsh  and  thrift- 

lesse. 
If  you  would  Consull  be  (sayes  one)  of  Rome, 
You  must  be  watching,  starting  out  of  sleepes  ; 
Every  way  whisking  ;  gloryfying  Plebeians  ; 

114  as'r.    Emended  by  ed.  ;   Q,  as. 


Scene  IV.]  Hetntge  of  IBufif^^  SE>'^mboi0  239 

Kissing  Patricians  hands,  rot  at  their  dores ;        13° 
Speake  and  doe  basely  ;  every  day  bestow 
Gifts  and  observance  upon  one  or  other : 
And  what's  th'event  of  all  ?  Twelve  rods  before 

thee  ; 
Three  or  foure  times  sit  for  the  whole  tribunal! ; 
Exhibite  Circean  games;   make  publike  feasts;  135 
And  for  these  idle  outward  things  (sayes  he) 
Would'st  thou  lay  on  such  cost,  toile,  spend  thy 

spirits  ? 
And  to  be  voide  of  perturbation, 
For  constancie,  sleepe  when  thou  would'st  have 

sleepe, 
Wake  when  thou  would'st  wake,  feare  nought, 

vexe  for  nought,  14° 

No    paines    wilt    thou    bestow  ?    no    cost  ?   no 

thought  ? 
Ren.    What  should  I  say  ?    As  good  consort 

with  you 
As  with  an  angell ;   I  could  heare  you  ever. 
Cler.    Well,    in,    my   lord,  and    spend    time 

with  my  sister. 
And  keepe  her  from  the  field  with  all  endeavour.  145 
The  souldiers  love  her  so,  and  shee  so  madly 
Would  take  my  apprehension,  if  it  chance. 
That  bloud  would  flow  in  rivers. 

Ren.  Heaven  forbid  ! 

And  all  with  honour  your  arrivall  speede  !      Exit. 


240   Ketienge  of  )15u0si^  2D';amboifl(  [acthi. 

Enter  Messenger  with  two  Souldiers  like  Lackies. 

Messenger.    Here  are  two  lackies,  sir,   have 

message  to  you.  150 

Cler.    What    is     your    message  ?    and    from 

whom,  my  friends  ? 
i{st  Soldier. ~\    From  the  Lieutenant,  Colonell, 
and  the  Captaines, 
Who  sent  us  to  informe  you  that  the  battailes 
Stand  ready  rang'd,  expecting  but  your  presence 
To  be  their  honor'd  signall  when  to  joyne,  155 

And  we  are  charg'd  to  runne  by,  and  attend  you. 
Cler.   I  come.   I  pray  you  see  my  running  horse 
Brought  to  the  backe-gate  to  mee. 

Mess.  Instantly.         Exit  Messlenger']. 

Cler.    Chance  what  can  chance  mee,  well  or 
ill  is  equall 
In  my  acceptance,  since  I  joy  in  neyther,  160 

But  goe  with  sway  of  all  the  world  together. 
In  all  successes  Fortune  and  the  day 
To  mee  alike  are ;  I  am  fixt,  be  shee 
Never  so  fickle ;  and  will  there  repose, 
Farre  past  the  reach  of  any  dye  she  throwes.       165 
ExlJt']  cum  Pediss\_equis~\. 


Finis  Actus  tertii. 


Actus  quarti  Sc^ena  prima. 

[^  Parade-Ground  near  Cambrai.~\ 

Alarum  within :   Excursions  over  the  Stage. 

The  [Soldiers  disguised  as"]  Lackies  running,  Maillard 
following  them. 

Maillard.    Villaines,  not  hold  him  when  ye 
had  him  downe  ! 

1  \$t    Soldier.'^     Who  *  can    hold     lightning  ? 

Sdeath  a  man  as  well 
Might  catch  a  canon  bullet  in  his  mouth, 
And  spit  it  in  your  hands,  as  take  and  hold  him. 
Mail.    Pursue,  enclose  him  !  stand  or  fall  on 
him, 
And  yee  may  take  him.   Sdeath  !  they  make  him 
guards.  Exit. 

Alarum  still,  and  enter  C  ha  Ion, 

Challon.    Stand,  cowards,  stand  ;   strike,  send 

your  bullets  at  him. 
i\_st  Soldier.'^     Wee  came  to  entertaine  him, 

sir,  for  honour. 

2  [d  Soldier.']     Did  ye  not  say  so  ? 

Chal.  Slaves,  hee  is  a  traitor ; 

Command  the  horse  troopes  to  over-runne  the 

traitor.  Exeunt. 

Exeunt.    Q,  Exit. 


242    Hrbengr  of  )15u0sf^  2D'£mboi0   [activ. 

Shouts  within.     Alarum  still,  a?id  Chambers  shot  off. 
Then  enter  Aumall. 

Awnale.    What   spirit   breathes   thus    in    this 
more  then  man, 
Turnes  flesh  to  ayre  possest,  and  in  a  storme 
Teares  men  about  the  field  like  autumne  leaves  ? 
He  turnd  wilde  lightning  in  the  lackies  hands, 
Who,  though   their  sodaine  violent  twitch  un- 

horst  him,  j- 

Yet  when  he  bore  himselfe,  their  saucie  fingers 
Flew  as  too  hot  off^,  as  hee  had  beene  fire. 
The  ambush  then  made  in,  through  all  whose 

force 
Hee  drave  as  if  a  fierce  and  fire-given  canon 
Had  spit  his  iron  vomit  out  amongst  them.  20 

The  battailes  then  in  two  halfe-moones  enclos'd 

him. 
In  which  he  shew'd  as  if  he  were  the  light. 
And  they  but  earth,  who,  wondring  what   hee 

was, 
Shruncke  their  Steele  homes  and  gave  him  glo- 
rious passe. 
And  as  a  great  shot  from  a  towne  besieg'd  25 

At  foes  before  it  flyes  forth  blacke  and  roring, 
But  they  too  farre,  and  that  with  waight  opprest 
(As  if  disdaining  earth)  doth  onely  grasse. 
Strike  earth,  and  up  againe  into  the  ayre, 
Againe  sinkes  to  it,  and  againe  doth  rise,  30 


Scene  I]   Ketjmge  of  115u08i^  D'^ttiboifif    243 

And  keepes  such  strength  that  when  it  softliest 

moves 
It  piece-meale  shivers  any  let  it  proves  — 
So  flew  brave  Clermont  forth,  till  breath  forsooke 

him, 
Then  fell  to  earth ;  and  yet  (sweet  man)  even 

then 
His  spirits  convulsions  made  him  bound  againe    35 
Past  all  their  reaches  ;  till,  all  motion  spent, 
His  fixt  eyes  cast  a  blaze  of  such  disdaine. 
All  stood  and  star'd,  and  untouch'd  let  him  lie. 
As  something  sacred  fallen  out  of  the  skie. 

A  cry  within. 

0  now  some  rude  hand  hath  laid  hold  on  him  !  40 

Enter Maillard,  Chalon  leading  Clermont,  Captaines  and 
Souldiers  following. 

See,  prisoner  led,  with  his  bands  honour'd  more 
Then  all  the  freedome  he  enjoy'd  before. 

Mail.    At  length  wee  have  you,  sir. 

Clermont.  You  have  much  joy  too  ; 

1  made  you  sport.    Yet,  but  I  pray  you  tell  mee, 
Are  not  you  perjur'd  ? 

Mail.  No  :   I  swore  for  the  King.  45 

Cler.    Yet  perjurie,  I  hope,  is  perjurie. 
Mail.    But  thus  forswearing  is  not  perjurie. 
You  are  no  politician  :   not  a  fault. 
How  foule  soever,  done  for  private  ends, 
Is  fault  in  us  sworne  to  the  publike  good  ;  50 


244   Kciiengc  of  115u00^  2D'^mboi0   [act  iv. 

Wee  never  can  be  of  the  damned  crew; 
Wee  may  impolitique  our  selves  (as  'twere) 
Into  the  kingdomes  body  politique, 
Whereof  indeede  we're  members  ;    you   misse 

termes. 
Cler.    The  things  are  yet  the  same.  55 

Mail.    Tis  nothing  so ;  the  propertie  is  al- 

ter'd  : 
Y'are  no  lawyer.    Or  say  that  othe  and  othe 
Are  still  the  same  in  number,  yet  their  species 
Differ  extreamely,  as,  for  flat  example, 
When   politique    widowes    trye    men    for  their 

turne,  60 

Before  they  wed  them,  they  are  harlots  then. 
But    when    they   wed    them,   they    are    honest 

women  ; 
So  private  men,  when  they  forsweare,  betray. 
Are  perjur'd  treachers,  but  being  publique  once. 
That  is,  sworne-married  to  the  publique  good  —  65 
Cler.    Are  married  women  publique  ? 
Mail.  Publique  good  ; 

For  marriage  makes  them,  being  the  publique 

good. 
And  could  not  be  without  them  :   so  I  say 
Men  publique,  that  is,  being  sworne-married 
To  the  good  publique,  being  one  body  made         70 
With  the  realmes  body  politique,  are  no  more 

54   We  re.     2,  We'are. 


Scene  I]   Keteitge  of  llBu0s(^  SD'^mbois;   245 

Private,  nor  can  be  perjur'd,  though  forsworne, 

More  then  a  widow  married,  for  the  act 

Of  generation  is  for  that  an  harlot. 

Because  for  that  shee  was  so,  being  unmarried  :   75 

An  argument  a  paribus. 

Chal.  Tis  a  shrow'd  one. 

Cler.    "  Who  hath  no  faith  to  men,  to  God 
hath  none  :  " 
Retaine  you  that,  sir  ?   who  said  so  ? 

Mail.  Twas  I. 

Cler.    Thy  owne  tongue  damne  thy  infidel- 
itie! 
But,  Captaines  all,  you  know  me  nobly  borne ;     go 
Use  yee  t'assault  such  men  as  I  with  lackyes  ? 

Chal.    They   are  no    lackyes,  sir,  but    soul- 
diers 
Disguis'd  in  lackyes  coates. 

I  Sold.  Sir,  wee  have  scene  the  enemie. 

Cler.    Avant !   yee  rascols,  hence  ! 

Mail.    Now  leave  your  coates. 

Cler.  Let  me  not  see  them  more.  85 

Jum.    I  grieve  that  vertue  lives  so  undistin- 
guisht 
From  vice  in  any  ill,  and  though  the  crowne 
Of  soveraigne  law,  shee  should  be  yet  her  foot- 

stoole. 
Subject  to  censure,  all  the  shame  and  paine 
Of  all  her  rigor. 


246   Hetjengr  of  llBttfiffi^  SD'^mbois!  [activ. 

Cler.  Yet  false  policie  90 

Would  cover  all,  being  like  offenders  hid, 
That  (after  notice  taken  where  they  hide) 
The  more  they  crouch  and  stirre,  the  more  are 
spide. 

Jum.    I  wonder  how  this  chanc'd  you. 

Cler.  Some  informer, 

Bloud-hound  to  mischiefe,  usher  to  the  hang- 
man, 95 
Thirstie  of  honour  for  some  huge  state  act. 
Perceiving  me  great  with  the  worthy  Guise, 
And  he  (I  know  not  why)  held  dangerous. 
Made  me  the  desperate  organe  of  his  danger, 
Onely  with  that  poore  colour :   tis  the  common  loo 
And  more  then  whore-like  tricke  of  treacherie 
And  vermine  bred  to  rapine  and  to  ruine. 
For  which  this  fault  is  still  to  be  accus'd  ; 
Since  good  acts  faile,  crafts  and  deceits  are  us'd. 
If  it  be  other,  never  pittie  mee.                               105 

Jum.   Sir,  we   are  glad,   beleeve  it,  and  have 
hope 
The  King  will  so  conceit  it. 

Cler.  At  his  pleasure. 

In  meane  time,  what's  your  will.  Lord  Lieu- 
tenant ? 

Mail.  To    leave    your  owne  horse,  and   to 
mount  the  trumpets. 

Cler.   It  shall  be  done.    This  heavily  prevents  no 


Scene  1]    ^t^ntxi^t  of  Wn$&^  SD'^mboisi    247 

My  purpos'd  recreation  in  these  parts  ; 
Which  now  I  thinke  on,  let  mee  begge  you,  sir, 
To  lend  me  some  one  captaine  of  your  troopes, 
To  beare  the  message  of  my  haplesse  service 
And  miserie  to  my  most  noble  mistresse,  115 

Countesse   of  Cambray;   to    whose  house  this 

night 
I  promist  my  repaire,  and  know  most  truely, 
With  all  the  ceremonies  of  her  favour, 
She  sure  expects  mee. 

Mail.  Thinke  you  now  on  that  ? 

Cler.   On  that,  sir  ?   I,  and  that  so  worthily,    120 
That  if  the  King,  in  spight  of  your  great  service, 
Would  send  me  instant  promise  of  enlargement. 
Condition  I  would  set  this  message  by, 
I  would  not  take  it,  but  had  rather  die. 

Jum.  Your  message  shall  be  done,  sir  :  I,  my 

selfe,  125 

Will  be  for  you  a  messenger  of  ill. 

Cler.   I  thanke  you,  sir,  and  doubt  not  yet  to 
live 
To  quite  your  kindnesse. 

Jum.  Meane  space  use  your  spirit 

And  knowledge  for  the  chearfull  patience 
Of  this  so  strange  and  sodaine  consequence.         130 

Cler.    Good    sir,  beleeve   that   no    particular 
torture 
Can  force  me  from  my  glad  obedience 


248   Eetornge  of  115us;0^  HD'^mbois  [activ. 

To  any  thing  the  high  and  generall  Cause, 
To  match    with    his  whole   fabricke,  hath  or- 

dainde  ; 
And  know  yee  all  (though  farre  from  all  your 

aymes,  135 

Yet  worth  them  all,  and  all  mens  endlesse  studies) 
That  in  this  one  thing,  all  the  discipline 
Of  manners  and  of  manhood  is  contain'd  : — 
A  man  to  joyne  himselfe  with  th'Universe 
In  his  maine  sway,  and  make  (in  all  things  fit)  140 
One  with  that  all,  and  goe  on  round  as  it  ; 
Not  plucking  from  the  whole  his  wretched  part. 
And  into  straites,  or  into  nought  revert. 
Wishing  the  compleate  Universe  might  be 
Subject  to  such  a  ragge  of  it  as  hee ;  145 

But  to  consider  great  Necessitie 
All  things,  as  well  refract  as  voluntarie, 
Reduceth  to  the  prime  celestiall  cause  ; 
Which  he  that  yeelds  to  with  a  mans  applause. 
And  cheeke  by  cheeke  goes,  crossing  it  no  breath,  150 
But  like  Gods  image  followes  to  the  death. 
That  man  is  truely  wise,  and  every  thing 
(Each  cause  and  every  part  distinguishing) 
In  nature  with  enough  art  understands. 
And  that  full  glory  merits  at  all  hands  155 

That  doth  the  whole  world  at  all  parts  adorne, 
And  appertaines  to  one  celestiall  borne. 

Exeunt  ormies. 


Scene  11]  Hetoeitge  of  llBusig^  D'^tTiboig  249 

[Sc^NA    SECUNDA. 

A  Room  at  the  Court  in  Paris.^ 

Enter  Baligny,  Renel. 

Baligny.   So  foule  a  scandall   never  man  sus- 
tain'd. 
Which   caus'd  by  th'King   is   rude  and   tyran- 
nous : 
Give  me  a  place,  and  my  Lieutenant  make 
The  filler  of  it  ! 

Renel.  I  should  never  looke 

For  better  of  him  ;  never  trust  a  man  5 

For  any  justice,  that  is  rapt  with  pleasure; 
To  order  armes  well,  that  makes  smockes  his 

ensignes. 
And  his  whole  governments  sayles  :  you  heard 

of  late 
Hee  had  the  foure  and  twenty  wayes  of  venerie 
Done  all  before  him. 

Bal.  Twas  abhorr'd  and  beastly.   lo 

Ren.   Tis    more    then  natures   mightie  hand 
can  doe 
To  make  one  humane  and  a  letcher  too. 
Looke  how  a  wolfe  doth  like  a  dogge  appeare. 
So  like  a  friend  is  an  adulterer; 
Voluptuaries,  and  these  belly-gods,  15 

No  more  true  men  are  then  so  many  toads. 


250   Keijengc  of  115u05^  E>'^mboi0  [activ. 

A  good  man  happy  is  a  common  good  ; 
Vile  men  advanc'd  live  of  the  common  bloud. 
Bal.   Give,  and  then  take,  like  children  ! 
Ren.  Bounties  are 

As  soone  repented  as  they  happen  rare.  20 

Bal.   What   should   Kings   doe,  and    men  of 
eminent  places. 
But,  as  they  gather,  sovi^  gifts  to  the  graces  ? 
And  where  they  have  given,  rather  give  againe 
(Being  given   for  vertue)  then,   like  babes  and 

fooles. 
Take  and    repent  gifts  ?    why    are   wealth  and 

power  ?  25 

Ren.  Power  and  wealth  move  to  tyranny,  not 
bountie  ; 
The    merchant    for    his    wealth    is    swolne   in 

minde, 
When  yet  the  chiefe  lord  of  it  is  the  winde. 
Bal.  That  may  so  chance  to  our  state-mer- 
chants too ; 
Something  performed,  that  hath  not  farre  to  goe.   30 
Ren.  That's  the   maine  point,  my  lord  ;   in- 
sist on  that. 
Bal.   But  doth  this  fire  rage  further  ?  hath  it 
taken 
The  tender  tynder  of  my  wifes  sere  bloud  ? 
Is  shee  so  passionate  ? 

Ren.  So  wilde,  so  mad, 


Scene  III]  HetjetTge  of  HBufig^  SD'^mbois  251 

Shee  cannot  live  and  this  unwreakt  sustaine.         35 
The  woes  are  bloudy  that  in  women  raigne. 
The  Sicile  gulfe  keepes  feare  in  lesse  degree ; 
There  is  no  tyger  not  more  tame  then  shee. 
Bal.  There  is  no  looking  home,  then  ? 
Ren.  Home  !   Medea 

With  all  her  hearbs,  charmes,  thunders,  light- 
ning, 40 
Made  not  her  presence  and  blacke  hants  more 
dreadfull. 
Bal.   Come,  to  the  King  ;   if  he  reforme  not 
all, 
Marke  the  event,  none  stand  where  that  must 
fall.                                                      Exeunt. 

[Sc^NA  TERTIA. 
A  Room  in  the  House  of  the  Countess  of  Cambrai.'\ 
Enter  Countesse,  Riova,  and  an  Usher. 
Usher.   Madame,  a  captaine  come  from  Cler- 
mont D'Ambois 
Desires  accesse  to  you. 

Countess.  And  not  himselfe  ? 

Ush.  No,  madame. 

Count.  That's  not  well.     Attend  him  in. 

Exit  Ush[er'\. 
The  last  houre  of  his  promise  now  runne  out  ! 


252    Hetimgc  of  llBusfs;^  2r>'^mboi0  [activ. 

And  hee  breake,  some  brack's   in  the   frame  of 

nature  5 

That  forceth  his  breach. 

E7iter  Usher  and  Aumal. 
Aumale.  Save  your  ladiship  ! 

Coun.   All    welcome !    Come  you    from    my 

worthy  servant  ? 
Aum.   I,  madame,  and  conferre  such  newes 

from  him  — 
Coun.   Such  newes  !  what  newes  ? 
Aum.  Newes  that  I  wish  some  other  had  the 

charge  of.  ,o 

Coun.   O,  what  charge  ?  what  newes  .'' 
Aum.   Your  ladiship  must  use  some  patience. 
Or  else  I  cannot  doe  him  that  desire 
He  urg'd  with  such  affection  to  your  graces. 
Coun.   Doe    it,   for  heavens  love,  doe  it  !   if 
you  serve  j^ 

His  kinde  desires,  I  will  have  patience. 
Is  hee  in  health  } 

Aum.  He  is. 

Count.  Why,  that's  the  ground 

Of  all  the  good  estate  wee  hold  in  earth  j 
All  our  ill  built  upon  that  is  no  more 
Then  wee  may  beare,  and  should ;  expresse  it  all.  20 

5   brack's.    Emended  by  all  editors  ;   Q,  brack. 
20  and  should ;   expresse  it  all.    So  punctuated  by  all  editors  ; 
Q,  and  should  expresse  it  all. 


Scene  HI]  Ketjeitge  of  115u08f^  D'^mbotfi  253 

Aum.   Madame,  tis  onely  this  ;  his  libertie  — 
Coun.   His   libertie  !    Without  that   health  is 
nothing. 
Why  live  I,  but  to  aske  in  doubt  of  that  ? 
Is  that  bereft  him  ? 

Aum.  You'll  againe  prevent  me. 

Coun.  No  more,  I  sweare  ;  I  must  heare,  and 
together  2.5 

Come  all  my  miserie  !    He  hold,  though  I  burst. 
Aum.   Then,  madame,  thus   it   fares  ;  he  vi^as 
envited. 
By  way  of  honour  to  him,  to  take  vievv^ 
Of  all  the  powers  his  brother  Baligny 
Hath  in  his  government;   which  rang'd   in  bat- 

tailes,  30 

Maillard,  Lieutenant  to  the  Governour, 
Having  receiv'd  strickt  letters  from  the  King, 
To  traine  him  to  the  musters  and  betray  him 
To    their    supprise  ;     which,    with    Chalon    in 

chiefe. 
And  other  captaines  (all  the  field  put  hard  35 

By  his  incredible  valour  for  his  scape) 
They  haplesly  and  guiltlesly  perform'd  ; 
And  to  Bastile  hee's  now  led  prisoner. 

Count.   What  change  is  here  !   how  are  my 
hopes  prevented  ! 
O  my  most  faithfull  servant,  thou  betraid  !  40 

31   Maillard.    Q,  Mailiard. 


254   Kftonxgr  of  llBu00^  W^mbois  [act  iv. 

Will  Kings  make  treason  lawfull  ?    Is  societie 
(To  keepe  which  onely   Kings  were  first    or- 

dain'd) 
Lesse  broke  in  breaking  faith  twixt  friend  and 

friend 
Then  twixt  the   King  and  subject  ?    let    them 

feare 
Kings  presidents  in  licence  lacke  no  danger.         45 
Kings  are  compar'd  to  Gods,  and  should  be  like 

them, 
Full  in  all  right,  in  nought  superfluous. 
Nor  nothing  straining  past  right  for  their  right. 
Raigne  justly,  and  raigne  safely.    Policie 
Is  but  a  guard  corrupted,  and  a  way  50 

Venter'd  in  desarts,  without  guide  or  path. 
Kings  punish  subjects  errors  with  their  owne. 
Kings  are  like  archers,  and  their  subjects,  shafts  : 
For  as  when  archers  let  their  arrowes  flye. 
They  call  to  them,  and  bid  them  flye  or  fall,        55 
As  if  twere  in  the  free  power  of  the  shaft 
To  flye  or  fall,  when  onely  tis  the  strength. 
Straight    shooting,   compasse    given    it    by   the 

archer. 
That  makes  it  hit  or  misse  ;  and  doing  eyther, 
Hee's  to    be  prais'd    or    blam'd,  and    not  the 

shaft :  60 

So   Kings  to  subjects  crying,  "  Doe,  doe   not 

this," 


Scene  HI]    Mt^itn^t  0(  H^UHH^  W  ^XtlhOiH     255 

Must  to  them  by  their  owne  examples  strength, 
The  straightnesse  of  their  acts,  and  equall  com- 

passe. 
Give  subjects  power  t'obey  them  in  the  like ; 
Not  shoote  them  forth  with  faultie  ayme  and 

strength,  65 

And  lay  the  fault  in  them  for  flying  amisse. 
j^um.   But  for  your  servant,  I  dare  sweare  him 

guiltlesse. 
Count.    Hee    would    not    for    his    kingdome 

traitor  be ; 
His  lawes  are  not  so  true  to  him,  as  he. 
O  knew  I  how  to  free  him,  by  way  forc'd  70 

Through  all  their  armie,  I  would  flye,  and  doe 

it : 
And  had  I  of  my  courage  and  resolve 
But  tenne  such  more,  they  should  not  all  re- 

taine  him. 
But  I  will  never  die,  before  I  give 
Maillard  an  hundred  slashes  with  a  sword,  75 

Chalon  an  hundred  breaches  with  a  pistoU. 
They    could    not    all     have,    taken    Clermont 

D'Ambois 
Without  their   treacherie ;    he  had  bought    his 

bands  out 
With  their  slave  blouds  :  but  he  was  credulous  ; 
Hee  would  beleeve,  since  he  would  be  beleev'd  ;  80 
Your  noblest  natures  are  most  credulous. 


256   Kftmgc  of  Bu0s;^  2E>'^mboi0  [activ. 

Who  gives  no  trust,  all  trust  is  apt  to  breake  ; 
Hate  like  hell  mouth  who  thinke  not  what  they 
speake. 
Aum.   Well,  madame,  I  must   tender  my  at- 
tendance 
On  him  againe.    Will't  please  you  to  returne       85 
No  service  to  him  by  me  ? 

Count.  Fetch  me  straight 

My  little  cabinet.  Exit  Atuil  \ld\ . 

Tis  little,  tell  him, 
And  much  too  little  for  his  matchlesse  love  : 
But  as  in  him  the  worths  of  many  men 
Are  close  contracted,  (/;//r[^/]  J/ui/[/a.^)  so  in 

this  are  jewels  90 

Worth  many  cabinets.    Here,  with  this  (good  sir) 
Commend  my  kindest  service  to  my  servant, 
Thanke  him,  with  all  my  comforts,  and,  in  them, 
With  all  my  life  for  them  ;  all  sent  from  him 
In  his  remembrance  of  mee  and  true  love.  95 

And  looke  you  tell  him,  tell  him  how  I  lye 

She  hieeles  downe  at  his  feete. 
Prostrate  at  feet  of  his  accurst  misfortune. 
Pouring  my  teares  out,  which  shall  ever  fall, 
Till  I  have  pour'd  for  him  out  eyes  and  all. 
Aum.   O   madame,  this  will  kill  him  ;  com- 
fort you  100 
With  full  assurance  of  his  quicke  acquitall  ; 
Be  not  so  passionate  ;   rise,  cease  your  teares. 


Scene  IV. ]  Ecbengc of  llBufifs;^  E>'^mboisf  257 

Coun.   Then  must  my  life  cease.    Teares  are 
all  the  vent 
My  life  hath  to  scape  death.    Teares  please  me 

better 
Then  all  lifes  comforts,  being  the  naturall  seedeios 
Of  heartie  sorrow.    As  a  tree  fruit  beares, 
So  doth  an  undissembled  sorrow,  teares. 

Hee  raises  her,  and  leades  her  out.    Exe  \u7if\ . 

Usher.  This   might    have  beene  before,  and 

sav'd  much  charge.  Exit- 

[Sc^NA    QUARTA. 

A  Room  at  the  Court  in  Paris. '\ 

Enter  Henry,   Guise,   Baligny,    Esp\_erno?ie'],  Soisson. 
Pericot  with  pen,  incke,  and  paper. 

Guise.   Now,  sir,  I  hope  you're  much  abus'd 

eyes  see 
In  my  word  for  my  Clermont,  what  a  villaine 
Hee  was  that  whisper'd  in  your  jealous  eare 
His  owne  blacke  treason   in    suggesting  Cler- 

monts, 
Colour'd  with  nothing  but  being  great  with  mee.     5 
Signe  then  this  writ  for  his  deliverie  ; 
Your  hand  was  never  urg'd  with  worthier  bold- 

nesse  : 
Come,  pray,  sir,  signe  it.    Why  should  Kings  be 

praid 


258   Hebmge  of  115u0sf^  SD'^mbotg  [activ. 

To  acts  of  justice?   tis  a  reverence 

Makes  them  despis'd,  and  showes  they  sticke 

and  tyre  10 

In  what  their  free  powers  should  be  hot  as  fire. 
Henry.   Well,  take  your  will,  sir ;  —  He  have 
mine  ere  long.  —  A-venus. 

But  wherein  is  this  Clermont  such  a  rare  one  ? 
Gui.  In    his     most    gentle    and    unwearied 
minde, 
Rightly  to  vertue  fram'd  in  very  nature;  15 

In  his  most  firme  inexorable  spirit 
To  be  remov'd  from  any  thing  hee  chuseth 
For  worthinesse ;   or  beare  the  lest  perswasion 
To  what  is  base,  or  fitteth  not  his  object ; 
In  his  contempt  of  riches,  and  of  greatnesse         20 
In  estimation  of  th'idolatrous  vulgar  ; 
His  scorne  of  all  things  servile  and  ignoble. 
Though  they  could  gaine  him  never  such  ad- 
vancement ; 
His  liberall  kinde  of  speaking  what  is  truth. 
In  spight  of  temporising  ;  the  great  rising  25 

And  learning  of  his  soule  so  much  the  more 
Against  ill  fortune,  as  shee  set  her  selfe 
Sharpe  against  him  or  would  present  most  hard. 
To  shunne  the  malice  of  her  deadliest  charge  ; 
His  detestation  of  his  speciall  friends,  30 

When  he  perceiv'd  their  tyrannous  will  to  doe, 

^'versus.     In  left  margin  in  Q. 


Scene  IV.  ]  ^t\)tnQt  Of  BUfiffif^  SD'^ttlboiS     259 

Or  their  abjection  basely  to  sustaine 
Any  injustice  that  they  could  revenge  ; 
The  flexibilitie  of  his  most  anger, 
Even  in  the  maine  careere  and  fury  of  it,  35 

When  any  object  of  desertfull  pittie 
Offers  it  selfe  to  him  ;   his  su'eet  disposure. 
As  much  abhorring  to  behold  as  doe 
Any  unnaturall  and  bloudy  action  ; 
His  just  contempt  of  jesters,  parasites,  40 

Servile  observers,  and  polluted  tongues  — 
In  short,  this  Senecall  man  is  found  in  him, 
Hee  may  with  heavens   immortall  powers  com- 
pare. 
To  whom  the  day  and  fortune  equall  are ; 
Come  faire  or  foule,  whatever  chance  can  fall,     45 
Fixt  in  himselfe,  hee  still  is  one  to  all. 

Hen.  Showes  he  to  others  thus  ? 

Omnes.  To  all  that  know  him. 

Hen.  And  apprehend  I  this  man  for  a  traitor  ? 

Gui.  These  are  your  Machevilian   villaines, 
Your    bastard   Teucers,   that,  their   mischiefes 

done,  50 

Runne  to  your  shield  for  shelter  ;   Cacusses 
That  cut  their  too  large  murtherous  theveries 
To  their  dens  length  still.    Woe  be  to  that  state 
Where  treacherie  guards,  and  ruine  makes  men 
great ! 

51    Cacusses.    Ed.j   Q,  Caucusses. 


26o   lictjntge  of  yBus&^  aD'^mboig  [act  iv. 

Hen.   Goe,  take  my  letters  for  him,  and  release 

him.  55 

Om.  Thankes  to  your  Highnesse ;  ever  live 
your  Highnesse  !  Exeunt. 

Baligny.   Better   a    man    were    buried    quicke 
then  live 
A  propertie  for  state  and  spoile  to  thrive.     Exit. 

[Sc^NA    OyiNTA. 
A  Coujitry  Road,  between  Cambrai  and  Paris. ~^ 
Enter  Clermont,  Mail\_iard'\ ,  Chal^on']  with  Souldiers. 
Maillard.   Wee  joy  you  take  a  chance  so  ill, 

so  well. 
Clermont.   Who  ever  saw  me  differ  in  accept- 
ance 
Of  eyther  fortune  ? 

Chalon.  What,  love  bad  like  good  ! 

How  should  one  learne  that  ? 

Cler.  To  love  nothing  outward, 

Or  not  within  our  owne  powers  to  command  ;       5 
And  so  being  sure  of  every  thing  we  love, 
Who  cares  to  lose  the  rest  ?   if  any  man 
Would  neyther  live  nor  dye  in  his  free  choise, 
But  as  hee  sees  necessitie  will  have  it 
(Which  if  hee  would  resist,  he  strives  in  vaine)   10 
What  can  come  neere  him  that  hee  doth  not 
well  ? 


Scene  v.]     Ut^imQt  Of  WUSOS^  W ^VXhOiS     26  I 

And  if  in  worst  events  his  will  be  done, 
How  can  the  best  be  better  ?   all  is  one. 

Mail.   Me  thinkes  tis  prettie. 

Cler.  Put  no  difference 

If  you  have  this,  or  not  this;  but  as  children        15 
Playing  at  coites  ever  regard  their  game. 
And  care  not  for  their  coites,  so  let  a  man 
The    things    themselves    that    touch    him    not 

esteeme. 
But  his  free  power  in  well  disposing  them. 

Chal.   Prettie,  from  toyes  ! 

Cler.  Me  thinkes  this  double  disticke  20 

Seemes  prettily  too  to  stay  superfluous  longings  : 
"  Not  to  have  want,  what  riches  doth  exceede  ? 
Not  to  be  subject,  what  superiour  thing? 
He  that  to  nought  aspires,  doth  nothing  neede  ; 
Who  breakes  no  law  is  subject  to  no  King."        25 

Mail.   This  goes  to  mine  eare  well,  I  promise 
you. 

Chal.   O,   but   tis   passing  hard    to   stay   one 
thus. 

Cler.   Tis   so ;  rancke  custome  raps  men  so 
beyond  it. 
And  as  tis  hard  so  well  mens  dores  to  barre 
To  keepe  the  cat  out  and  th'adulterer :  30 

So  tis  as  hard  to  curbe  affections  so 
Wee  let  in  nought  to  make  them  over-flow. 
And  as  of  Homers  verses,  many  critickes 


262   Keijenge  of  )15u0si^  S>'^mboisf  [activ. 

On  those  stand  of  which  times  old  moth  hath 

eaten 
The  first  or  last  feete,  and  the  perfect  parts  35 

Of  his  unmatched  poeme  sinke  beneath, 
With  upright  gasping  and  sloath  dull  as  death : 
So  the  unprofitable  things  of  life, 
And  those  we  cannot  compasse,  we  affect ; 
All  that  doth  profit  and  wee  have,  neglect,  40 

Like  covetous  and  basely  getting  men 
That,  gathering   much,    use   never   what    they 

keepe  ; 
But  for  the  least  they  loose,  extreamely  weepe. 
Mail.   This   prettie    talking,  and   our   horses 

walking 
Downe  this  steepe  hill,  spends  time  with  equall 

profit.  45 

Cler.   Tis   well  bestow'd  on  ye;    meate  and 

men  sicke 
Agree  like  this  and  you  :   and  yet  even  this 
Is  th'end  of  all  skill,  power,  wealth,  all  that  is. 
Chal.  I  long  to  heare,  sir,  how  your  mistresse 

takes  this. 

Enter  Aumal  with  a  cabinet. 

Mail.  Wee  soone  shall  know  it ;  see  Aumall 

return'd.  5° 

Aumale.   Ease  to  your  bands,  sir  ! 
Cler.  Welcome,  worthy  friend ! 


Scene  v.]     HXt^itXl^t  Of  J^UH^^  W ^mhoiSi     263 

Cha/.    How  tooke  his  noblest  mistresse  your 

sad  message  ? 
jfum.  As  great  rich  men  take  sodaine  povertie. 
I  never  witness'd  a  more  noble  love, 
Nor  a  more  ruthfull  sorrow  :   I  well  wisht  55 

Some  other  had  beene  master  of  my  message. 
Mail.   Y'are  happy,  sir,  in  all  things,  but  this 
one 
Of  your  unhappy  apprehension. 

Ckr.  This  is  to  mee,  compar'd  with  her  much 
mone. 
As  one  teare  is  to  her  whole  passion.  60 

Jum.  Sir,  shee  commends  her  kindest  service 
to  you, 
And  this  rich  cabinet. 

Cha/.  O  happy  man  ! 

This  may  enough  hold  to  redeeme  your  bands. 
Ckr.   These    clouds,    I    doubt    not,   will   be 
soone  blowne  over. 
Enter  Baligny,  with  his  discharge :  Renel,  and  others. 
Aum.  Your  hope  is  just  and  happy  ;  see,  sir, 
both  65 

In  both  the  looks  of  these. 

Baligny.  Here's  a  discharge 

For  this   your  prisoner,  my  good  Lord   Lieu- 
tenant. 
Mail.  Alas,  sir,  I  usurpe  that  stile,  enforc't, 
And  hope  you  know  it  was  not  my  aspiring. 


264   Ketjenge  of  15us;0^  SD'^mboig  [activ. 

Bal.   Well,  sir,   my  wrong   aspir'd    past   all 

mens  hopes.  lo 

Mail.   I  sorrow  for  it,  sir. 
Renel.  You  see,  sir,  there 

Your  prisoners  discharge  autenticall. 

Mail.   It  is,  sir,  and  I  yeeld  it  him  with  glad- 

nesse. 
Bal.   Brother,  I  brought  you  downe  to  much 

good  purpose. 
Cler.   Repeate    not    that,    sir ;     the    amends 

makes  all.  75 

Ren.   I  joy  in  it,  my  best  and  worthiest  friend  ; 
O,  y'have  a  princely  fautor  of  the  Guise. 
Bal.   I  thinke  I  did  my  part  to. 
Ren.  Well,  sir,  all 

Is  in  the  issue  well :   and  (worthiest  friend) 
Here's  from  your  friend,  the  Guise ;    here  from 

the  Countesse,  80 

Your  brothers  mistresse,  the  contents  whereof 
I  know,  and  must  prepare  you  now  to  please 
Th'unrested  spirit  of  your  slaughtered  brother, 
If  it  be  true,  as  you  imagin'd  once. 
His  apparition  show'd  it.    The  complot  85 

Is  now  laid  sure  betwixt  us ;   therefore  haste 
Both  to  your  great  friend  (who  hath  some  use 

waightie 
For  your  repaire  to  him)  and  to  the  Countesse, 
Whose  satisfaction  is  no  lesse  important. 


Scene  v.]  Hetimge  of  115u08f^  D'^mboig  265 

Cler.  I  see  all,  and  will  haste  as  it  importeth.  90 
And  good  friend,  since  I  must  delay  a  little 
My  wisht  attendance  on  my  noblest  mistresse, 
Excuse  me  to  her,  with  returne  of  this, 
And  endlesse  protestation  of  my  service ; 
And  now  become  as  glad  a  messenger,  95 

As  you  were  late  a  wofull, 

Jum.  Happy  change  ! 

I  ever  will  salute  thee  with  my  service.       Exit. 

Bal.   Yet  more  newes,  brother  ;   the  late  jest- 
ing Monsieur 
Makes  now  your  brothers  dying  prophesie  equall 
At  all  parts,  being  dead  as  he  presag'd.  100 

Ren.   Heaven  shield  the  Guise  from  second- 
ing that  truth 
With  what  he  likewise  prophesied  on  him  ! 

Cler.   It  hath  enough,  twas  grac'd  with  truth 
in  one  ; 
To'th  other  falshood  and  confusion  ! 
Leade  to  the  Court,  sir. 

Bal.  You  He  leade  no  more;  105 

It  was  to  ominous  and  foule  before.         Exeunt. 

105   to  the.    Shepherd,  Phelps  ;   g,  to'th. 


Finis  Actus  quarti. 


Actus  quiNTi  Sc-ffiNA  prima. 

[^  Room  in  the  Palace  of  the  Duke  of  GuiseJ^ 

Ascendit  Umbra  Bussi. 

Umbra  Bussi.   Up  from  the  chaos  of  eternall 

night 
(To  which  the  whole  digestion  of  the  world 
Is  now  returning)  once  more  I  ascend, 
And  bide  the  cold  dampe  of  this  piercing  ayre, 
To  urge  the  justice  whose  almightie  word  5 

Measures  the  bloudy  acts  of  impious  men 
With  equall  pennance,  who  in  th'act  it  selfe 
Includes  th'infliction,  which  like  chained  shot 
Batter  together  still ;   though  (as  the  thunder 
Seemes,  by  mens  duller  hearing  then  their  sight,  10 
To  breake  a  great  time  after  lightning  forth, 
Yet  both  at  one  time  teare  the  labouring  cloud) 
So  men  thinke  pennance  of  their  ils  is  slow, 
Though  th'ill  and  pennance  still  together  goe. 
Reforme,  yee  ignorant  men,  your  manlesse  lives   15 
Whose  lawes  yee  thinke  are  nothing  but  your 

lusts  ; 
When  leaving  (but  for  supposition  sake) 
The  body  of  felicitie,  religion. 
Set  in  the  midst  of  Christendome,  and  her  head 
Cleft  to  her  bosome,  one  halfe  one  way  swaying,  20 


Scene  I]   Hcbnige  of  BttSf^^  H>'0mboi0  267 

Another  th'other,  all  the  Christian  world 

And  all  her  lawes  whose  observation 

Stands  upon  faith,  above  the  power  of  reason  — 

Leaving  (I  say)  all  these,  this  might  suffice 

To  fray  yee  from  your  vicious  swindge  in  ill        25 

And  set  you  more  on  fire  to  doe  more  good  ; 

That  since  the  world  (as  which  of  you  denies  ?) 

Stands  by  proportion,  all  may  thence  conclude 

That  all  the  joynts  and  nerves  sustaining  nature 

As  well  may  breake,  and  yet  the  world  abide,       30 

As  any  one  good  unrewarded  die. 

Or  any  one  ill  scape  his  penaltie. 

The  Ghost  sta?ids  close. 

Efiter  Guise,  Clermont. 

Guise.   Thus  (friend)  thou  seest  how  all  good 
men  would  thrive. 
Did  not  the  good  thou  prompt'st  me  with  pre- 
vent 
The  jealous  ill  pursuing  them  in  others.  35 

But  now  thy  dangers  are  dispatcht,  note  mine. 
Hast  thou  not  heard  of  that  admired  voyce 
That  at  the  barricadoes  spake  to  mee, 
(No  person   scene)  "  Let's    leade    my  lord    to 
Reimes  "  ? 
Clermont.   Nor  could  you  learne  the  person  ? 
Gut.  By  no  meanes.  40 

Cler.  Twas  but  your  fancie,  then,  a  waking 
dreame : 


268   Metienge  of  llBusfs;^  so'^mbois;    [act  v. 

For  as  in  sleepe,  which  bindes  both  th'outward 

senses 
And  the  sense  common  to,  th'imagining  power 
(Stird  up  by  formes  hid  in  the  memories  store, 
Or  by  the  vapours  of  o'er-flowing  humours  45 

In  bodies  full  and  foule,  and  mixt  with  spirits) 
Faines  many  strange,  miraculous  images, 
In  which  act  it  so  painfully  applyes 
It  selfe  to  those  formes  that  the  common  sense 
It  actuates  with  his  motion,  and  thereby  50 

Those  fictions  true  seeme  and  have  reall  act : 
So,  in  the  strength  of  our  conceits  awake. 
The  cause  alike  doth   [oft]  like  fictions  make. 

Gut.   Be  what  it  will,  twas  a  presage  of  some- 
thing 
Waightie  and  secret,  which  th'advertisements       55 
I  have  receiv'd  from  all  parts,  both  without 
And    in    this    kingdome,    as    from    Rome    and 

Spaine, 
Lorraine  and  Savoye,  gives  me  cause  to  thinke, 
All  writing  that  our  plots  catastrophe. 
For  propagation  of  the  Catholique  cause,  60 

Will  bloudy  prove,  dissolving  all  our  counsailes. 

Cler.   Retyre,  then,  from  them  all. 

Gut.  I  must  not  doe  so. 

The  Arch-Bishop  of  Lyons  tels  me  pjaine 

53   doth  oft  like.     Emended  by  ed.  ;   Q,  doth  of  like. 

58  Lorraine.   Emended  by  ed.;  Q,  Soccaine  ;  see  note  on  55-61. 


Scene  I]      1^0^01X20  Of  llBU^Sf^  SD'^lttboig     269 

I  shall  be  said  then  to  abandon  France 
In  so  important  an  occasion  ;  65 

And  that  mine  enemies '(their  profit  making 
Of  my  faint  absence)  soone  would  let  that  fall, 
That  all  my  paines  did  to  this  height  exhale. 

Cler.    Let  all  fall  that  would  rise  unlawfully  ! 
Make  not  your  forward  spirit  in  vertues  right       70 
A  property  for  vice,  by  thrusting  on 
Further  then  all  your  powers  can  fetch  you  off. 
It  is  enough,  your  will  is  infinite 
To  all  things  vertuous  and  religious, 
Which,  within  limits  kept,  may  without  danger  75 
Let  vertue  some  good  from  your  graces  gather. 
Avarice  of  all  is  ever  nothings  father. 

Umb.   Danger  (the  spurre  of  all  great  mindes) 

is  ever 
The  curbe  to  your  tame  spirits  ;  you  respect  not 
(With  all  your  holinesse  of  life  and  learning)       80 
More  then  the  present,  like  illiterate  vulgars  ; 
Your   minde    (you    say)    kept    in   your    fleshes 

bounds 
Showes   that    mans  will    must  rul'd   be  by  his 

power : 
When  by  true  doctrine  you  are  taught  to  live 
Rather  without  the  body  then  within,  85 

And  rather  to  your  God  still  then  your  selfe. 
To  live  to  Him  is  to  doe  all  things  fitting 
His  image  in  which  like  Himselfe  we  live; 


270   Hetjmge  of  y&n&s^  W^mhois    [act  v. 

To  be  His  image  is  to  doe  those  things 

That    make    us    deathlesse,  which   by  death   is 

onely  90 

Doing  those  deedes  that  fit  eternitie ; 
And  those  deedes  are  the  perfecting  that  justice 
That  makes  the  world  last,  which  proportion  is 
Of  punishment  and  wreake  for  every  wrong, 
As  well  as  for  right  a  reward  as  strong  :  95 

Away,  then  !  use  the  meanes  thou  hast  to  right 
The  wrong  I  sufFer'd.    What  corrupted  law 
Leaves  unperform'd  in  Kings,  doe  thou  supply, 
And  be  above  them  all  in  dignitie.  Exit. 

Gui.   Why  stand'st  thou  still  thus,  and  apply- 
est  thine  eares  100 

And  eyes  to  nothing  ? 

Cler.  Saw  you  nothing  here  ? 

Gui.  Thou  dream'st  awake  now;  what  was 
here  to  see  ? 

Cler.   My  brothers  spirit,  urging  his  revenge. 

Gut.   Thy  brothers  spirit !   pray  thee  mocke    ' 
me  not. 

Cler.   No,  by  my  love  and  service. 

Gui.  Would  he  rise,  105 

And  not  be  thundring  threates  against  the  Guise  ? 

Cler.  You  make  amends  for  enmitie  to  him. 
With  tenne  parts  more  love  and  desert  of  mee ; 
And  as  you  make  your  hate  to  him  no  let 

90  Repunctuated  by  ed. ;   g  has  (;)  at  the  end  of  the  line. 


Scene  I]      li^tttXl^t  Ot  )i5U!S>Si^  W  ^mhOiS     27  I 

Of  any  love  to  mee,  no  more  beares  hee  no 

(Since  you  to  me  supply  it)  hate  to  you. 
Which  reason  and  which  justice  is  perform'd 
In  spirits  tenne  parts  more  then  fleshy  men ; 
To  whose  fore-sights  our  acts  and  thoughts  lie  , 

open: 
And  therefore,  since  hee  saw  the  treacherie         115 
Late  practis'd  by  my  brother  Baligny, 
Hee  would  not  honor  his  hand  with  the  justice 
(As  hee  esteemes  it)  of  his  blouds  revenge, 
To  which    my   sister   needes  would    have   him 

sworne. 
Before  she  would  consent  to  marry  him.  lao 

Gui.   O  Baligny  !  —  who  would  beleeve  there 

were 
A  man  that  (onely  since  his  lookes  are  rais'd 
Upwards,  and  have  but  sacred  heaven  in  sight) 
Could  beare  a  minde  so  more  then  divellish  ? 
As  for  the  painted  glory  of  the  countenance,       125 
Flitting  in  Kings,  doth  good  for  nought  esteeme, 
And  the  more  ill  hee  does,  the  better  seeme. 

Cler.   Wee  easily  may  beleeve  it,  since  we  see 
In  this  worlds  practise  few  men  better  be. 
Justice  to  live  doth  nought  but  justice  neede,      130 
But  policie  must  still  on  mischiefe  feede. 
Untruth,   for  all   his   ends,   truths    name   doth 

sue  in  ; 
None  safely  live  but  those  that  study  ruine. 


272    HrtJenge  of  115usf0^  SE>'0mboi0    [actv. 

A  good  man  happy  is  a  common  good  ; 

111  men  advanc'd  live  of  the  common  bloud.        135 

Gut.   But  this  thy  brothers  spirit  startles  mee, 
These  spirits  seld  or  never  banting  men 
But  some  mishap  ensues. 

Cler.  Ensue  what  can  ; 

Tyrants  may  kill  but  never  hurt  a  man  ; 
All  to  his  good  makes,  spight  of  death  and  hell.  140 
Enter  Aumall. 

Aumale.   All  the  desert  of  good  renowne  your 

Highnesse  ! 
Gui.   Welcome,  Aumall ! 
Cler.  My  good  friend,  friendly  welcome  ! 

How  tooke  my  noblest  mistresse  the   chang'd 
newes  ? 
Aum.   It  came  too  late  sir,  for  those  loveliest 
eyes 
(Through    which    a    soule    look't    so    divinely 

loving,  ,^5 

Teares  nothing  uttering  her  distresse  enough) 
She  wept  quite  out,  and,  like  two  falling  starres, 
Their    dearest    sights    quite    vanisht    with    her 
teares. 
Cler.   All  good  forbid  it ! 
Gui.  What  events  are  these  ! 

141    All  .    .    .   renowne.    Q,  All  the  desert  of  good,  renowne 
your  Highnesse. 


Scene  I]      ^t\}tn^t  Of  WU&$^  W  ^XtlhoiH     273 

Cler.   All  must  be  borne,  my   lord ;  and  yet 

this  chance  150 

Would  willingly  enforce  a  man  to  cast  off 
All  power  to  beare  with  comfort,  since  hee  sees 
In  this  our  comforts  made  our  miseries. 

Gut.   How  strangely  thou  art  lov'd  of  both 

the  sexes ; 
Yet  thou  lov'st  neyther,  but  the  good  of  both.    155 

Ckr.   In  love  of  women  my  affection  first 
Takes  fire  out  of  the  fraile  parts  of  my  bloud  ; 
Which,  till  I  have  enjoy'd,  is  passionate 
Like  other  lovers;  but,  fruition  past, 
I  then  love  out  of  judgement,  the  desert  160 

Of  her  I  love  still  sticking  in  my  heart. 
Though  the  desire  and  the  delight  be  gone. 
Which  must  chance  still,  since  the  comparison 
Made  upon  tryall  twixt  what  reason  loves. 
And  what  affection,  makes  in  mee  the  best  165 

Ever  preferd,  what  most  love,  valuing  lest. 
Gui.  Thy  love  being  judgement  then,  and  of 

the  minde, 
Marry  thy  worthiest  mistresse  now  being  blinde. 
Cler.   If   there  were   love   in    mariage,   so    I 

would  ; 
But  I  denie  that  any  man  doth  love,  170 

Affecting  wives,  maides,  widowes,  any  women  : 
For   neither    flyes    love    milke,   although    they 

drowne 


274   Mt^tn%tof'B\i6$^W3im\)oi&    [actv. 

In  greedy  search  thereof;  nor  doth  the  bee 
Love  honey,  though  the  labour  of  her  life 
Is  spent  in  gathering  it;  nor  those  that  fat  175 

On  beasts,  or  fowles,  doe  any  thing  therein 
For  any  love  :   for  as  vi^hen  onely  nature 
Moves  men  to  meate,  as  farre  as  her  power  rules, 
Shee  doth  it  with  a  temperate  appetite. 
The  too  much  men  devoure  abhorring  nature,    180 
And  in  our  most  health  is  our  most  disease  : 
So,  when  humanitie  rules  men  and  women, 
Tis  for  societie  confinde  in  reason. 
But  what  excites  the  beds  desire  in  bloud. 
By  no  meanes  justly  can  be  construed  love;        185 
For  when  love  kindles  any  knowing  spirit. 
It  ends  in  vertue  and  effects  divine. 
And  is  in  friendship  chaste  and  masculine. 
Gui.   Thou  shalt  my  mistresse  be ;  me  thinkes 
my  bloud 
Is  taken  up  to  all  love  with  thy  vertues.  190 

And  howsoever  other  men  despise 
These  paradoxes  strange  and  too  precise, 
Since  they  hold  on  the  right  way  of  our  reason, 
I  could  attend  them  ever.   Come,  away ; 
Performe  thy  brothers  thus  importun'd  wreake;i95 
And  I  will  see  what  great  affaires  the  King 
Hath  to  employ  my  counsell  which  he  seemes 
Much  to  desire,  and  more  and  more  esteemes. 

£xeunL 

176   On.    Shepherd,  Phelps  j   Q,  Or. 


Scene  II.]  Eebeiige  of  115u00^  JBD'^ttiboifif  275 

[Sc^NA    SECUNDA. 

A  Room  at  the  Court. '\ 

Enter  Henry,  Baligny,  with  sixe  of  the  guard. 

Henry.   Saw  you   his    sawcie  forcing  of  my 
hand 
To  D'Ambois  freedome  ? 

Baligny.  Saw,  and  through  mine  eyes 

Let  fire  into  my  heart,  that  burn'd  to  beare 
An  insolence  so  giantly  austere. 

Hen.  The  more  Kings  beare  at  subjects  hands, 

the  more  S 

Their  lingring  justice  gathers  ;  that  resembles 
The  waightie  and  the  goodly-bodied  eagle, 
Who  (being  on  earth)  before  her  shady  wings 
Can  raise  her  into  ayre,  a  mightie  way 
Close  by  the  ground  she  runnes  ;  but  being  aloft,  10 
All  shee  commands,  she  flyes  at ;   and  the  more 
Death  in  her  seres  beares,  the  more  time  shee 

stayes 
Her  thundry   stoope   from  that  on  which  shee 
preyes. 
Bal.  You  must  be  then  more  secret   in  the 
waight 
Of  these  your  shadie  counsels,  who  will  else         15 
Beare  (where   such  sparkes  flye  as   the  Guise 
and  D'Ambois) 


276   Ketjmge  of  515us:fif^  2D'0tttboi0    [actv. 

Pouder  about  them.    Counsels  (as  your  entrailes) 
Should  be  unpierst  and  sound  kept ;  for  not  those 
Whom  you  discover  you  neglect ;  but  ope 
A  ruinous  passage  to  your  owne  best  hope.  20 

Hen.   Wee   have  spies  set  on   us,  as  we  on 

others  ; 
And  therefore  they  that  serve  us  must  excuse  us, 
If  vi^hat  vi^ee  most  hold  in  our  hearts  take  winde ; 
Deceit  hath  eyes  that  see  into  the  minde. 
But  this  plot  shall  be  quicker  then  their  twinck- 

ling,  25 

On  whose  lids  Fate  with  her  dead  waight  shall  lie, 
And  confidence  that  lightens  ere  she  die. 
Friends  of  my  Guard,  as  yee  gave  othe  to  be 
True  to  your  Soveraigne,  keepe  it  manfully. 
Your  eyes  have  witnest  oft  th'ambition  30 

That  never  made  accesse  to  me  in  Guise 
But  treason  ever  sparkled  in  his  eyes  ; 
Which  if  you  free  us  of,  our  safetie  shall 
You  not  our  subjects  but  our  patrons  call. 

Omnes.   Our  duties  binde  us  ;  hee  is  now  but 

dead.  35 

Hen.   Wee     trust     in     it,    and     thanke     ye. 

Baligny, 
Goe  lodge  their  ambush,  and  thou  God,  that  art 
Fautor  of  princes,  thunder  from  the  skies 
Beneath  his  hill  of  pride  this  gyant  Guise. 

Exeunt. 


Scene  III]  ^t\}tn%t  of  Bus^sf^  SD'^mboi^  277 

[Sc^NA    TERTIA. 

^  Room  in  Montsurrf  s  House. '^ 
Enter  Tamyra  with  a  letter,  Charlotte  in  mans  attire. 

Tamyra.   I  see  y'are  servant,  sir,  to  my  deare 

sister. 
The  lady  of  her  loved  Baligny. 

Charlotte.   Madame,  I  am  bound  to  her  ver- 

tuous  bounties 
For  that  life  which  I  offer,  in  her  service, 
To  the  revenge  of  her  renov^^ned  brother,  5 

Tarn.   She  writes  to  mee  as  much,  and  much 

desires 
That  you  may  be  the  man,  whose  spirit  shee 

knowes 
Will  cut  short  off  these  long  and  dull  delayes 
Hitherto  bribing  the  eternall  Justice  : 
Which  I  beleeve,  since  her  unmatched  spirit         10 
Can  judge  of  spirits  that  have  her  sulphure  in 

them. 
But  I  must  tell  you  that  I  make  no  doubt 
Her  living  brother  will  revenge  her  dead, 
On  whom  the  dead  impos'd  the  taske,  and  hee, 
I  know,  will  come  t'effect  it  instantly.  15 

2  lo-ved.    Shepherd,  Phelps  ;    Q,  lou'd. 

4  her  ser-vice.  Ed.  ;  Q,  her  vertuous  service  ;  vertuous,  which  is 
obviously  hypermetrical,  has  been  repeated  by  mistake  from  the 
previous  line. 


278   Hetjenge  of  llBusfsf^  SD'^mbois;    [act  v. 

Char.   They  are  but  words  in  him  ;  beleeve 

them  not. 
Tarn.  See ;  this  is  the  vault  where  he  must 

enter ; 
Where  now  I  thinke  hee  is. 

Enter  Renel  at  the  vault,  with  the   Countesse  being 
blinde. 

Renel.  God  save  you,  lady  ! 

What  gentleman  is  this,  with  whom  you  trust 
The  deadly  waightie  secret  of  this  houre  ?  20 

Tarn.   One  that  your  selfe  will  say  I  well  may 
trust. 

Ren.    Then  come  up,  madame. 

He  helps  the  Countesse  up. 
See  here,  honour'd  lady, 
A  Countesse  that  in  loves  mishap  doth  equall 
At  all  parts  your  wrong'd  selfe,  and  is  the  mis- 

tresse 
Of  your  slaine  servants  brother;  in  whose  love,  25 
For  his  late  treachrous  apprehension. 
She  wept  her  faire  eyes  from  her  ivory  browes. 
And  would  have  wept  her  soule  out,  had  not  I 
Promist  to  bring  her  to  this  mortall  quarrie, 
That  by  her  lost  eyes  for  her  servants  love  30 

She  might  conjure  him  from  this  sterne  attempt. 
In  which  (by  a  most  ominous  dreame  shee  had) 
Shee  knowes  his  death  fixt,  and  that  never  more 
Out  of  this  place  the  sunne  shall  see  him  live. 


Scene  III]  Uetimge  of  Busfsfi?  2D'0mboi0  279 

Char.    I  am  provided,  then,  to  take  his  place  35 
And  undertaking  on  me. 

Ren.  You  sir,  why  ? 

Char.    Since  I  am  charg'd  so  by  my  mistresse. 
His  mournful!  sister. 

Tarn.  See  her  letter,  sir.       Hee  reades. 

Good  madame,  I  rue  your  fate  more  then  mine, 
And  know  not  how  to  order  these  affaires,  40 

They  stand  on  such  occurrents. 

Ren.  This,  indeede, 

I  know  to  be  your  lady  mistresse  hand  ; 
And  know  besides,  his  brother  will  and  must 
Indure  no  hand  in  this  revenge  but  his. 
E7iter  Umbr\_a\  Bussy. 

Umbra.    Away,  dispute  no  more  ;  get  up,  and 
see !  45 

Clermont  must  auchthor  this  just  tragedie. 

Coun.    Who's  that  ? 

Ren.  The  spirit  of  Bussy. 

Tarn.  O  my  servant ! 

Let  us  embrace. 

Umb.  Forbeare  !    The  ayre,  in  which 

My  figures  liknesse  is  imprest,  will  blast. 
Let  my  revenge  for  all  loves  satisfie,  50 

In  which,  dame,  feare  not,  Clermont  shall  not  dye. 
No  word  dispute  more  ;   up,  and  see  th'event. 

Exeunt  Ladyes. 

47-48.  Three  lines  in  Q^,  broken  at  Bussy,  embrace,  ivhich. 


28o   Kebmge  of  llBu00^  SD'^mboifi!    [actv. 

Make  the  guard  sure,  Renel ;  and  then  the  doores 
Command  to  make  fast,  when  the  Earle  is  in. 

Exit  Ren  \el'\ . 
The  blacke  soft-footed  houre  is  now  on  wing,     55 
Which,  for  my  just  wreake,  ghosts  shall  cele- 
brate 
With  dances  dire  and  of  infernall  state.       Exit. 

[Sc^NA    QUARTA. 

y4n  Ante-room  to  the  Council-Chamber. "^ 

Enter  Guise. 

Guise.  Who  sayes  that  death  is  naturall,  when 
nature 
Is  with  the  onely  thought  of  it  dismaid  ? 
I  have  had  lotteries  set  up  for  my  death. 
And  I  have  drawne  beneath  my  trencher  one, 
Knit  in  my  hand-kerchiefe  another  lot,  S 

The  word  being,  "  Y'are  a  dead  man  if  you  en- 
ter "  ; 
And  these  words  this  imperfect  bloud  and  flesh 
Shrincke  at  in  spight  of  me,  their  solidst  part 
Melting  like  snow  within  mee  with  colde  fire. 
I  hate  my  selfe,  that,  seeking  to  rule  Kings,         10 
I  cannot  curbe  my  slave.    Would  any  spirit 
Free,  manly,  princely,  wish  to  live  to  be 
Commanded  by  this  masse  of  slaverie. 
Since  reason,  judgement,  resolution, 


Scene iv]  Uetjoige of  llBus^^^ 2D'^mboi0  28 1 

And  scorne  of  what  we  feare,  will  yeeld  to  feare  ?   15 
While  this  same  sincke  of  sensualitie  swels, 
Who  would  live  sinking  in  it  ?  and  not  spring 
Up  to  the  starres,  and  leave  this  carrion  here, 
For  wolfes,  and  vultures,  and  for  dogges  to  teare  ? 
O  Clermont  D'Ambois,  wert  thou  here  to  chide  20 
This  softnesse  from  my  flesh,  farre  as  my  reason, 
Farre  as  my  resolution  not  to  stirre 
One  foote  out  of  the  way  for  death  and  hell ! 
Let  my  false  man  by  falshood  perish  here ; 
There's  no  way  else  to  set  my  true  man  cleere.  25 
Enter  Messenger. 

Messenger.    The  King  desires  your  Grace  to 

come  to  Councill. 
Gui.    I  come.    It  cannot  be ;  hee  will  not  dare 
To  touch  me  with  a  treacherie  so  prophane. 
Would  Clermont  now  were  here,  to  try  how  hee 
Would  lay  about  him,  if  this  plot  should  be :        30 
Here  would  be  tossing  soules  into  the  skie. 
Who  ever  knew  bloud  sav'd  by  treacherie  ? 
Well,  I  must  on,  and  will ;  what  should  I  feare  ? 
Not  against  two,  Alcides  ;   against  two. 
And  Hercules  to  friend,  the  Guise  will  goe.  35 

He  takes  up  the  Arras,  and  the  Guard  enters 
upon  him  :  hee  drawes. 
Gui.    Holde,  murtherers  ! 

They  strike  him  downe. 
So  then,  this  is  confidence 


282   Ketjenge  of  )15us;0^  H>'0mboi0    [actv. 

In  greatnes,  not  in  goodnes.   Wher  is  the  King  ? 
The  King  comes  in  sight  with  Es\_pernone~^  , 
Sois^son'^,  y  others. 
Let  him  appeare  to  justifie  his  deede, 
In  spight  of  my  betrai'd  wounds;  ere  my  soule 
Take  her  flight  through  them,  and  my  tongue 

hath  strength  4° 

To  urge  his  tyrannic. 

Henry.  See,  sir,  I  am  come 

To  justifie  it  before  men  and  God, 
Who  knowes  with  what  wounds  in  my  heart  for 

woe 
Of  your  so  wounded  faith  I  made  these  wounds, 
Forc't  to  it  by  an  insolence  of  force  45 

To  stirre  a  stone ;  nor  is  a  rocke,  oppos'd 
To  all  the  billowes  of  the  churlish  sea. 
More  beate  and  eaten  with  them  then  was  I 
With  your  ambitious,  mad  idolatrie ; 
And  this  bloud  I  shed  is  to  save  the  bloud  5° 

Of  many  thousands. 

Gui.  That's  your  white  pretext ; 

But  you  will  finde  one  drop  of  bloud  shed  law- 

lesse 
Will  be  the  fountaine  to  a  purple  sea. 
The  present  lust  and  shift  made  for  Kings  lives. 
Against  the  pure  forme  and  just  power  of  law,     ss 
Will  thrive  like  shifters  purchases  ;  there  hangs 
A  blacke  starre  in  the  skies,  to  which  the  sunne 


Scene  IV]  KetJClTge  Of  Bttfifg^  SD'^ttlbOlg     283 

Gives  yet  no  light,  will  raine  a  poyson'd  shower 
Into  your  entrailes,  that  will  make  you  feele 
How  little  safetie  lies  in  treacherous  Steele.  60 

Hen.    Well,  sir.  He  beare  it ;  y'have  a  brother 
to 
Bursts  with  like  threates,  the  skarlet  Cardinall  — 
Seeke,  and  lay  hands  on  him ;    and   take  this 

hence, 
Their  blouds,  for  all  you,  on  my  conscience  ! 

Exit. 

Gui.    So,  sir,  your  full   swindge  take;   mine 

death  hath  curb'd.  65 

Clermont,  farewell !    O  didst  thou  see  but  this ! 

But  it  is  better  ;   see  by  this  the  ice 

Broke   to   thine  owne   bloud,  which  thou  wilt 

despise 
When   thou    hear'st    mine   shed.     Is   there  no 

friend  here 
Will  beare  my  love  to  him  ? 

Aumale.  I  will,  my  lord.       7° 

Gui.    Thankes  with  my  last  breath  :   recom- 
mend me,  then. 
To  the  most  worthy  of  the  race  of  men. 

Djes.    Exeunt. 


284   Krfaenge  of  115u0fi;^  2E>'^mboi0    [act  v. 

[Sc^NA    QUINTA. 

A  Room  in  Montsurrf  s  House."^ 

Efiter  Mo)its\urry^  and  Tamyra. 

Montsurry .  Who  have  you  let  into  my  house  ? 
Tamyra.  I  ?   none. 

Mont.    Tis  false ;   I  savour  the  rancke  bloud 
of  foes 
In  every  corner. 

Tarn.  That  you  may  doe  well  ; 

It  is  the  bloud  you  lately  shed  you  smell. 
Mont.    Sdeath  !  the  vault  opens. 

The  gulfe  opens. 
Tarn.  What  vault  ?   hold  your  sword. 

Clermont  ascends. 
Clermont.   No,  let  him  use  it. 
Mont.  Treason  !   murther !   murther  ! 

Cler.   Exclaime  not;  tis  in  vaine,  and  base  in 
you, 
Being  one  to  onely  one. 

Mont.  O  bloudy  strumpet ! 

Cler.   With  what  bloud  charge  you  her  ?  it 
may  be  mine 
As  well  as  yours ;  there  shall  not  any  else 
Enter  or  touch  you  :   I  conferre  no  guards. 
Nor  imitate  the  murtherous  course  you  tooke, 

opens.    Emended  by  ed.  ;   2)  op^^. 


Scene  v.]  Hetcnge  of  115u00^  SD'^mboifi  285 

But  single  here  will  have  my  former  challenge 

Now  answer'd  single;  not  a  minute  more 

My  brothers  bloud  shall  stay  for  his  revenge,        15 

If  I  can  act  it  ;  if  not,  mine  shall  adde 

A  double  conquest  to  you,  that  alone 

Put  it  to  fortune  now,  and  use  no  ods. 

Storme  not,  nor  beate  your  selfe  thus  gainst  the 

dores. 
Like  to  a  savage  vermine  in  a  trap  :  20 

All  dores  are  sure  made,  and  you  cannot  scape 
But  by  your  valour. 

Mont.  No,  no,  come  and  kill  mee. 

Cler.   If   you  will    die  so   like  a  beast,  you 
shall ; 
But  when  the  spirit  of  a  man  may  save  you, 
Doe  not  so  shame  man,  and  a  Nobleman.  25 

Mont.   I  doe  not  show  this  basenesse  that  I 
feare  thee. 
But  to  prevent  and  shame  thy  victory, 
Which  of  one  base  is  base,  and  so  He  die. 

Cler.    Here,  then. 

Mont.  Stay,  hold!    One  thought  hath 

harden'd  me.  He  starts  up. 

And  since  I  must  afford  thee  victorie,  3° 

It  shall  be  great  and  brave,  if  one  request 
Thou  wilt  admit  mee. 

25    Nobleman.    Two  words  in  Q. 

29   Chr.    Here,  then.    Placed  by  Q  at  the  end  of  1.  29. 


286   Kftmgf  of  IBusffif^  ED'^mbois    [act  v. 

Cler.  What's  that  ? 

Mont.  Give  me  leave 

To  fetch  and   use  the  sword  thy  brother  gave 

mee, 
When  he  was  bravely  giving  up  his  life. 

Cler.   No ;   He  not  fight  against  my  brothers 

sword  ;  35 

Not  that  I  feare  it,  but  since  tis  a  tricke 
For  you  to  show  your  backe. 

Mont.  By  all  truth,  no  : 

Take  but  my  honourable  othe,  I  will  not. 

Cler.  Your  honourable  othe  !   Plaine  truth  no 
place  has 
Where  othes  are  honourable. 

Tam.  Trust  not  his  othe.  40 

Hee  will  lie  like  a  lapwing  ;  when  shee  flyes 
Farre  from  her  sought  nest,   still  "  Here  tis " 
shee  cryes. 
Mont.   Out  on  thee,  damme  of  divels  !    I  will 
quite 
Disgrace  thy  bravos  conquest,  die,  not  fight. 

Lyes  downe. 
Tam,   Out  on   my   fortune,  to  wed  such  an 
abject !  45 

Now  is  the  peoples  voyce  the  voyce  of  God ; 
Hee  that  to  wound  a  woman  vants  so  much. 
As  hee  did  mee,  a  man  dares  never  touch. 

44  hra'vos.    Emended  by  ed.  j   2*  braves. 


Scene  v.]  Mebmge  of  ^IBu^fif^  SD'^tttboiflf  287 

Cler.   Revenge  your  wounds  now,  madame ; 
I  resigne  him 
Up  to  your  full  will,  since  hee  will  not  fight.       50 
First  you  shall  torture  him  (as  hee  did  you, 
And  justice  wils)  and  then  pay  I  my  vow. 
Here,  take  this  ponyard. 

Mont.  Sinke  earth,  open  heaven. 

And  let  fall  vengeance  ! 

Tarn.  Come  sir,  good  sir,  hold  him. 

Mont.   O  shame  of  women,  whither  art  thou 

fled  !  55 

Cler.   Why   (good  my  lord)   is  it    a    greater 
shame 
For  her  then  you  ?   come,  I  will  be  the  bands 
You  us'd  to  her,  prophaning  her  faire  hands. 
Mont.   No,  sir,  He  fight  now,  and  the  terror 
be 
Of  all  you  champions  to  such  as  shee.  60 

I  did  but  thus  farre  dally  ;   now  observe. 
O  all  you  aking  fore-heads  that  have  rob'd 
Your  hands  of  weapons  and  your  hearts  of  val- 
our, 
Joyne  in  mee  all  your  rages  and  rebutters. 
And  into  dust  ram  this  same  race  of  Furies  ;         65 
In  this  one  relicke  of  the  Ambois  gall. 
In  his  one  purple  soule  shed,  drowne  it  all. 

Fight. 
Mont.  Now  give  me  breath  a  while. 


288   Ketenge  of  115us(0^  SD'^mbois    [act  v. 

Cler.  Receive  it  freely. 

Mont.   What  thinke  y'a  this  now  ? 

Cler.  It  is  very  noble, 

Had  it  beene  free,  at  least,  and  of  your  selfe  ;       70 
And  thus  vi^ee  see  (where  valour  most  doth  vant) 
What  tis  to  make  a  coward  valiant. 

Mont.   Now  I  shall  grace  your  conquest. 

Cler.  That  you  shall. 

Mont.   If  you  obtaine  it. 

Cler.  True,  sir,  tis  in  fortune. 

Mont.   If  you  were  not  a  D'Ambois,  I  would 
scarce  75 

Change  lives  with  you,  I  feele  so  great  a  change 
In   my  tall  spirits  breath'd,  I   thinke,  with  the 

breath 
A  D'Ambois  breathes  here  ;  and  necessitie 
(With  whose  point  now  prickt  on,  and  so  whose 

helpe 
My  hands   may  challenge)  that   doth    all   men 

conquer,  80 

If  shee  except  not  you  of  all  men  onely, 
May  change  the  case  here. 

Cler.  True,  as  you  are  chang'd  ; 

Her  power,  in  me  urg'd,  makes  y'another  man 
Then  yet  you  ever  were. 

Mont.  Well,  I  must  on. 

Cler.  Your  lordship  must  by  all  meanes. 

73-74.    Three  lines  in  2)  broken  at  conquest,  it,  AnA  fortune. 


Scene  v.]  Hebmse  of  Bu0fif^  SD'^titbots;  289 

Mont.  Then  at  all.  85 

Fights,  and  D'Ambois  hurts  him. 

\_Enter  Renel,  the  Countess,  and'\    Charlotte  above. 

Charlotte.   Death  of  my  father,  what  a  shame 
is  this  ! 
Sticke  in  his  hands  thus  !  She  gets  downe. 

Renel  \tryi?ig  to  stop  her'] .     Gentle  sir,  forbeare  ! 

Countess.   Is  he  not  slaine  yet  ? 

Ren.  No,  madame,  but  hurt 

In  divers  parts  of  him. 

Mont.  Y'have  given  it  me, 

And  yet  I  feele  life  for  another  vennie.  90 

Enter  Charlotte  \belozv] . 

Cler.   What  w^ould  you,  sir  ? 

Char.  I  would  performe  this  combat. 

Cler.  Against  which  of  us  ? 

Char.  I  care  not  much  if  twere 

Against  thy  selfe  ;  thy  sister  would  have  sham'd 
To  have  thy  brothers  wreake  with  any  man 
In  single  combat  sticke  so  in  her  fingers.  95 

Cler.   My  sister  !  know  you  her  ? 

Tarn.  I,  sir,  shee  sent  him 

With  this  kinde  letter,  to  performe  the  wreake 
Of  my  deare  servant, 

Cler.  Now,  alas  !   good  sir, 

Thinke  you  you  could  doe  more  ? 

88-89.   Three  lines  in  Q,  broken  aiyet,  him,  and  me. 


290   Kebenge  of  llBufisf^  2r)'^mboi0    [actv. 

Char.  Alas  !   I  doe  ; 

And  wer't  not  I,  fresh,  sound,  should  charge  a 

man  loo 

Weary  and  wounded,  I  would  long  ere  this 
Have  prov'd  what  I  presume  on. 

Cler.  Y'have  a  minde 

Like  to  my  sister,  but  have  patience  now  ; 
If  next  charge  speede  not,  lie  resigne  to  you, 
Mont.   Pray  thee,  let  him  decide  it. 
Cler.  No,  my  lord,  105 

I  am  the  man  in  fate ;  and  since  so  bravely 
Your  lordship  stands  mee,  scape  but  one  more 

charge, 
And,  on  my  life,  He  set  your  life  at  large. 

Mont.   Said  like  a  D'Ambois,  and  if  now  I  die, 
Sit  joy  and  all  good  on  thy  victorie  !  no 

Fights,  and  fah  downe. 
Mont.   Farewell !   I  hartily  forgive  thee  ;  wife. 
And  thee  ;  let  penitence  spend  thy  rest  of  life. 
Hee  gives  his  hand  to  Cler\Tnont'\  and  his  wife. 
Cler.   Noble  and  Christian  ! 
Tarn.  O,  it  breakes  my  heart. 

Cler.  And  should ;  for  all  faults  found  in  him 
before 
These  words,  this  end,  makes   full  amends  and 

more.  115 

Rest,  worthy  soule  ;  and  with  it  the  deare  spirit 
Of  my  lov'd  brother  rest  in  endlesse  peace  ! 


Scene  v.]  HetetTge  of  115u00^  E>'^mboi0  291 

Soft  lie  thy  bones  ;  Heaven  be  your  soules  abode  j 
And  to  your  ashes  be  the  earth  no  lode  ! 

Musicke,  and  the  Ghost  of  Bussy  enters,  leaditig  the 
Ghost\s'\  of  the  Guise,  Monsieur,  Cardinal!  Guise, 
and  Shattilion  ;  they  dance  about  the  dead  body,  and 
exeunt. 

Cler.  How  strange  is  this !  The  Guise 
amongst  these  spirits,  120 

And  his  great  brother  Cardinall,  both  yet  living  ! 

And  that  the  rest  with  them  with  joy  thus  cele- 
brate 

This  our  revenge !    This  certainely  presages 

Some  instant  death  both  to  the  Guise  and  Car- 
dinall. 

That  the  Shattilions  ghost  to  should  thus  joynei25 

In  celebration  of  this  just  revenge 

With  Guise  that  bore  a  chiefe  stroke  in  his 
death, 

It  seemes  that  now  he  doth  approve  the  act ; 

And  these  true  shadowes  of  the  Guise  and  Car- 
dinall, 

Fore-running  thus  their  bodies,  may  approve       130 

That  all  things  to  be  done,  as  here  wee  live. 

Are  done  before  all  times  in  th'other  life. 

That  spirits  should  rise  in  these  times  yet  are 
fables  ; 

125    Shattiliom.    Ed.;    Q,  Shattilians. 


292   Hetienge  of  1151100^  2D'^ntbois!    [actv. 

Though  learnedst    men   hold   that   our   sensive 

spirits 
A  little  time  abide  about  the  graves  135 

Of  their  deceased  bodies,  and  can  take, 
In  colde  condenc't  ayre,  the  same  formes  they 

had 
When  they  were  shut  up  in  this  bodies  shade. 
Enter  Aumall, 

Aumale.   O  sir,  the  Guise  is  slaine  ! 

Cler.  Avert  it  heaven  ! 

Aum.  Sent  for  to  Councill  by  the  King,  an 
ambush  140 

(Lodg'd    for  the   purpose)    rusht   on  him,  and 

tooke 
His  princely  life ;  who  sent  (in  dying  then) 
His  love  to  you,  as  to  the  best  of  men. 

Cler.  The  worst  and  most  accursed  of  things 
creeping 
On  earths  sad  bosome.    Let  me  pray  yee  all       145 
A  little  to  forbeare,  and  let  me  use 
Freely  mine  owne  minde  in  lamenting  him. 
He  call  yee  straight  againe. 

Aum.  We  will  forbeare, 

And  leave  you  free,  sir.  Exeunt. 

Cler.  Shall  I  live,  and  hee 

Dead,  that  alone  gave  meanes  of  life  to  me  ?       150 

144  accursed.    Shepherd,  Phelps  5  Q,  accurst. 


Scene  v.]  HebetTge  of  llBu00^  SD'^mboisf  293 

Theres  no  disputing  with  the  acts  of  Kings ; 
Revenge  is  impious  on  their  sacred  persons. 
And  could  I  play  the  worldling  (no  man  loving 
Longer  then  gaine  is  reapt  or  grace  from  him) 
I  should  survive;  and  shall  be  wondred  at  iSS 

Though  (in  mine  owne  hands  being)  I  end  with 

him  : 
But  friendship  is  the  sement  of  two  mindes, 
As  of  one  man  the  soule  and  body  is, 
Of  which  one  cannot  sever  but  the  other 
Suffers  a  needfull  separation.  i6o 

Ren.   I  feare  your  servant,  madame  :   let's  de- 
scend. Descend  Ren\el~\^   l^  Coun\tess\. 
Cler,  Since  I  could  skill  of  man,  I  never  liv'd 
To  please  men  worldly,  and  shall  I  in  death 
Respect  their  pleasures,  making  such  a  Jarre 
Betwixt  my  death  and  life,  when  death  should 

make  165 

The  consort  sweetest,  th'end  being  proofe  and 

crowne 
To  all  the  skill  and  worth  wee  truely  owne  ? 
Guise,  O  my  lord,  how  shall  I  cast  from  me 
The  bands  and  coverts  hindring  me  from  thee  ? 
The  garment  or  the  cover  of  the  minde  170 

The  humane  soule  is  ;  of  the  soule,  the  spirit 
The  proper  robe  is  ;  of  the  spirit,  the  bloud  ; 
And  of  the  bloud,  the  body  is  the  shrowd. 
With  that  must  I  beginne  then  to  unclothe. 


294   Hebenge  of  115u0fi(^  2E>'^mboi0    [act  v. 

And  come  at  th'other.     Now,  then,  as  a  ship     175 
Touching  at  strange  and  farre  removed  shores. 
Her  men  a  shore  goe,  for  their  severall  ends, 
Fresh     water,     victuals,    precious     stones,   and 

pearle. 
All  yet  intentive,  when  the  master  cals, 
The  ship  to  put  off  ready,  to  leave  all  180 

Their  greediest  labours,  lest  they  there  be  left 
To  theeves  or  beasts,  or  be  the  countries  slaves  : 
So,  now  my  master  cals,  my  ship,  my  venture 
All  in  one  bottome  put,  all  quite  put  off, 
Gone  under  saile,  and  I  left  negligent  185 

To  all  the  horrors  of  the  vicious  time. 
The  farre  remov'd  shores  to  all  vertuous  aimes. 
None  favouring  goodnesse,  none  but  he  respect- 
ing 
Pietie  or  man-hood  —  shall  I  here  survive, 
Not  cast  me  after  him  into  the  sea,  190 

Rather  then  here  live,  readie  every  houre 
To  feede  theeves,  beasts,  and  be  the  slave  of 


power 


I    come,    my    lord  !     Clermont,    thy   creature, 
comes.  Hee  kils  himselfe. 

Enter  Aumal,   Tamyra,  Charlotte, 
Aum.  What !   lye   and    languish,   Clermont ! 
Cursed  man, 
To  leave  him  here  thus  !   hee  hath  slaine  him- 
selfe. 195 


Scene  v.]  KetjeHge  of  115usi0^  2E)'^mboi0  295 

Tarn.  Misery  on   misery  !    O    me  wretched 

dame, 
Of  all  that  breath !    all    heaven   turne  all    his 

eyes 
In  harty  envie  thus  on  one  poore  dame. 

Char.  Well  done,  my  brother  !  I  did  love  thee 

ever. 
But  now  adore  thee  :    losse  of  such  a  friend       200 
None  should  survive,  of  such  a  brother  [none.] 
With  my    false  husband   live,  and   both   these 

slaine  ! 
Ere  I  returne  to  him.  He  turne  to  earth. 

Enter  Renel  leading  the  Countesse. 

Ren.   Horror  of  humane  eyes  !   O  Clermont 
D'Ambois  ! 
Madame,   wee   staid   too   long,  your    servant's 

slaine.  205 

Coun.  It  must  be  so  ;  he  liv'd  but  in  the  Guise, 
As  I  in  him.    O  follow  life  mine  eyes  ! 

Tarn.   Hide,  hide  thy  snakie  head  ;  to  clois- 
ters flie  ; 
In  pennance  pine  ;  too  easie  tis  to  die. 

Char.   It  is.   In  cloisters  then  let's  all  survive.  210 
Madame,    since    wrath    nor    griefe    can    helpe 
these  fortunes, 

201   none.  Added  by  ed. 

210  Cbar.    Shepherd,  Phelps;  2,  Cler. 


296   Hrbenge  of  Bu00^  W^mhoi&   [act  v. 

Let  us  forsake  the  world  in  which  they  raigne, 
And  for  their  wisht  amends  to  God  complaine. 
Count.   Tis  fit  and  onely  needfull  :   leade  me 
on  ; 
In   heavens   course  comfort  seeke,  in  earth  is 

none.  Exeunt.  215 

Enter  Henry,  Espernone,  Soissone,  and  others. 

Henry.  Wee  came   indeede  too  late,  which 

much  I  rue, 
And  would   have    kept    this  Clermont  as    my 

crowne. 
Take  in  the  dead,  and  make  this  fatall  roome 
(The    house    shut    up)  the  famous   D'Ambois 

tombe.  Exeunt. 


FINIS. 


I^otejf  to  €J)e  ^Hcbengc  of  ^n^^i? 
SD'^mbot^ 

For  the  meaning  of  single  ivords  see  the  Glossary. 

i68.   To  the  right  vertuous   .    .    .   S"".   Thomas 

Howard,  &C.  Thomas  Howard,  born  before  1594,  was  the 
second  son  of  the  first  Earl  of  Suffolk.  He  was  created  a  Knight 
of  the  Bath  in  January,  1605,  and  in  May,  16 14,  was  appointed 
Master  of  the  Horse  to  Charles,  Prince  of  Wales.  In  1622  he 
became  Viscount  Andover,  and  in  1626  Earl  of  Berkshire.  He 
held  a  number  of  posts  till  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War,  and  after 
the  Restoration  was  appointed  Gentleman  of  the  Bedchamber  to 
Charles  II,  and  Privy  Councillor.  He  died  on  July  16,  1669.  His 
daughter  Elizabeth  married  Dryden,  and  his  sixth  son,  Sir  Robert 
Howard,  became  distinguished  as  a  dramatic  writer  and  crjtic.  Chap- 
man addresses  to  this  patron  one  of  the  Sonnets  appended  to  his 
translation  of  the  Iliad,  in  which  he  compares  him  to  Antilochus, 
and  calls  him  "valiant,  and  mild,  and  most  ingenious." 

169,  35-6.  the  most  divine  philosopher.  The  refer- 
ence is  doubtless  to  Epictetus,  the  influence  of  whose  Discourses 
appears  throughout  The  Re-venge  of  Bussy  D'Ambois. 

174,  70.  That  thinke  .  .  .  that,  that  do  not  consider 
heavenly  bliss  complete  folly,  when  compared  with  money. 

17s,  71-2.  Well  .  .  .  arise.  A  hypocritical  appeal  by 
Baligny  to  the  absent  Duke  of  Guise,  of  whose  ambitious  schemes 
he  suspects  Renel  to  be  a  supporter. 

,  175,  79-82.  My  brother  .  .  .  brother.  Cf.  Introduction, 
p.  xxxvii. 

176,  97-  stands  now  on  price  with  him:  is  now  the 
subject  of  bargaining  between  him  and  me. 

178.  Monsieur  taking  leave  of  the  King.  Henry 
apparently  leaves  the  stage,  after  this  formal  ceremony  of  farewell, 
without  speaking,  for  he  takes  no  part  in  the  dialogue,  and  he  is  not 
mentioned  among  those  who  exeunt  at  1.  290. 


298  iliotesf 

178,  145.  See  .  .  .  Brabant.  The  expedition  of  the 
Duke  of  Anjou  here  alluded  to  is  that  of  1582,  when  he  was 
crowned  Dulce  of  Brabant  at  Antwerp. 

181,  202-4.    durst  .   .  .  lady.   Cf.  Bussy  D'Amhoh,  I,  ii, 

96-179. 

181,204-8.    emptied.  .  .were.   Cf.  Bussy  D^  Am  bois,  m, 

ii,  478-515- 

182,  234-5.  When  .  .  .  commanders.  Monsieur's  de- 
scription in  these  and  the  following  lines  of  Clermont's  and  Bussy's 
first  appearance  at  Court  is  purely  fictitious. 

183,  254.  a  keele  of  sea-COale.  A  keel  was  a  flat-bot- 
tomed boat,  used  in  the  northeast  of  England,  for  loading  and 
carrying  coal.  Afterwards  the  word  was  also  used  of  the  amount 
of  coal  a  keel  would  carry,  i.  e.  8  chaldrons,  or  21  tons  4  cwt. 
Sea-coal  was  the  original  term  for  the  fossil  coal  borne  from  New- 
castle to  London  by  sea,  to  distinguish  it  from  char-coal.  Cf. 
Shakespeare,  Merry  Wi-ves  of  Windsor,  i,  iv,  9,  "at  the  latter 
end  of  a  sea-coal  fire." 

184,  267.  a  poore  knights  living.  The  knights  of 
Windsor,  a  small  body  who  had  apartments  in  the  Castle,  and  pen- 
sions, were  often  known  as  "  poor  knights." 

185,  278.  But  killing  of  the  Kingl  Cf.  Bussy  U Am- 
bois,  III,  ii,  41 1. 

188,  332-3.  Why,  is  not  .  .  .  worthily.  If  this  is 
a  complimentary  allusion  to  Jaques'  speech  in  As  You  Like  It, 
II,  vii,  140-166,  it  is  remarkable  as  coming  from  the  writer  whom 
Shakespeare  at  an  earlier  date  had  probably  attacked  in  his  Son- 
nets. 

188,  335-42.    what    the   good    Greeke    moralist 

Sayes  ...  of  both.  This  passage  is  based  upon  the  Discourses 
of  Epictetus,  bk.  iv,  vii,  13,  which,  however,  Chapman  com- 
pletely misinterprets.  Epictetus  is  demonstrating  that  a  reasonable 
being  should  be  able  to  bear  any  lot  contentedly.  "  flcAeis  ireviav ; 
<p^pe  Kal  yvclxTT)  ri  iariv  mvla  Tvxovffa  KaXov  viroKpiTov.  dfXeis 
apxas  ;  (pfpe,  Kal  irSvovs. 

inroKpi-njs  is  used  here  metaphorically,  of  one  who  acts  a  part 
in  life,  not,  as  Chapman  takes  it,  of  an  actor  in  the  professional 
sense. 


i^otesi  299 

188-189,  354-5.    The  splenative  philosopher  .  .  . 

all.     Democritus. 

189,  356-74.   All  objects  .  .  .  they  were.   These  lines 

are  suggested  by  Juvenal's  Satire,  x,  11.  33-55,  but  they  diverge 
too  far  from  the  original  to  be  merely  a  paraphrase,  as  they  are 
termed  by  the  editor  of  the  1873  reprint. 

191,  17-18.  That  .  .  .  fire.  Ci.  Bussy  D'Ambois,\,\v, 
148-53. 

194,  75.  These  .  .  .  armes.  Cf.  Bussy  D"Ambois,\,\, 
128-154. 

200-201,  40-3.  Since  they  .  .  .  wrong'd:  since  these 
decrees  ensure  the  performance  of  that  guardianship,  so  that  earth 
and  heaven  are  kept  true  to  their  original  order  and  purpose,  in  no 
case  must  the  wrong  suffered  by  an  individual  man,  as  he  thinks, 
be  considered  really  a  wrong  done  to  him. 

203,  105.  Euphorbus,  son  of  Panthous,  a  Trojan  hero,  who 
first  wounded  Patroclus,  but  was  afterwards  slain  by  Menelaus. 
Pythagoras,  as  part  of  his  doctrine  of  the  transmigration  of  souls,  is 
said  to  have  claimed  to  have  been  formerly  Euphorbus. 

204,  113-22.  What  said  .  .  .  power.  The  reference  is 
to  Sophocles'  Antigove,  446—457,  where  the  Princess  justifies  herself 
for  burying  her  brother's  body  in  defiance  of  Creon's  edict. 

205,  135-6.  For  .  .  .  authoritie.  The  lines  here  para- 
phrased, to  which  Chapman  gives  a  marginal  reference,  are  from 
the  Antigone,  175-7. 

^ Pi.lJL'iixavov  Se  iravrhs  avSphs  eKiJ.aOe7v 
xf/vx'fji'  Te  KOi  ((>p6v7]fxa  koX  yvdfMTqv,  trplv  &v 
apxcui  T6  Kal  vS^ioiffw  ivrpifiris  <pavr]. 

205,  141.  virtuosi.  The  word  is  here  used  not  in  the  sense 
of  connoisseurs,  but  of  de'votees  of  -virtue.  The  editor  has  not  been 
able  to  trace  any  other  instance  of  this. 

206,  157-60.  that  lyons  .  .  .  prey.  Adapted  and  ex- 
panded from  the  Discourses  of  Epictetus,  bk.  iv,  i,  25.  The 
original  of  the  words  quoted  marginally  by  Chapman  in  a  Latin 
version  is,  ohy).  5'  '6(T(f  fiaXaKwrepov  Sie^ayei,  to(Tovtu)  ^ovXikcSi- 
Tepov  ; 

207,  181.  Siniil[iter].  By  this  marginal  reference  Chapman 
seems  to  indicate  that  11.  1 76-1 8 1  are  drawn  from  the  same  source 


300  j^OttS 

—  the  Discourses  of  Epictetus  —  as  11.  157-160,  to  which  the  pre- 
vious marginal  note  refers.  But  no  such  passage  occurs  in  the  Dis- 
courses. 

209-210,  205-34.  The  Massacre  .  .  .  never  massa- 
cerd.  On  this  strange  apologia  for  the  Guise's  share  in  the  Mas- 
sacre of  St.  Bartholomew,  see  Introduction,  pp.  xxxix-xl. 

209-210,    211-32.    Who   was    in     fault  .  .  .   lost. 

Freely  adapted  and  transposed  from  the  Discourses  of  Epictetus,  i, 
xxviii,  11-20. 

210-21 1,  246-9.  your  brave  .  .  .  deere.  Cf.  Appendix 
B,  where  De  Serres  mentions  the  Count  of  Auvergne's  "  Scottish 
horse  (which  Vitry  had  given  him)  the  which  would  have  outrunne 
all  the  horses  of  France. '  * 

2i3»  5-6-  th'insulting  Pillars  Of  Bacchus  and 
Alcides.  These  "Pillars"  are  mentioned  together  by  Strabo 
(bk.  m,  vi),  who  relates  that  during  Alexander's  expedition  to  India 
the  Macedonians  did  not  see  them,  but  identified  those  places  with 
them,  where  they  found  records  of  the  god  or  the  hero. 

216,  69-70.     What    thinke   .   .  .    lackies    coates. 

Cf.  Appendix  B,  where  Nerestan  has  three  "  lackquaies,"  who 
are  in  reality  ' '  soldiars  so  attyred  ' '  for  the  purpose  of  arresting  the 
Count  of  Auvergne. 

217,  82-6.  Who  knowes  .  .  .  made  :  who  is  unaware 
that  crafty  policy  pads  out  the  giant  that  does  his  will,  so  that  his 
wisdom  may  seem  commensurate  with  his  bulk,  though  it  is  merely 
for  a  trifling  encounter  vvith  what,  when  touched,  proves  a  shadow, 
though  policy  makes  it  out  to  be  a  monster. 

219,  12.  The  Locrian  princes.  The  inhabitants  of 
Locri,  a  settlement  near  the  promontory  of  Zephyrium,  were  cele- 
brated for  the  excellence  of  their  code  of  laws,  drawn  up  by  Za- 
leucus. 

220,  41-46.  Demetrius  Phalerius,  born  about  b.  c. 
345)  was  a  follower  of  Phocion,  and  on  the  death  of  the  latter  in 
B.  c.  317,  became  head  of  the  Athenian  administration.  The 
citizens,  in  gratitude  for  his  services,  erected  360  statues  to  him, 
but  afterwards  turned  agabst  him.  In  b.  c.  307  he  was  driven 
from  Athens,  sentence  of  death  was  passed  on  him,  and  the  statues 
were  demolished. 


0ott&  301 

220,  47.  DemadeS,  a  contemporaiy  of  Demosthenes,  who, 
by  his  genius  for  extempore  oratory,  raised  himself  to  a  predomi- 
nant position  in  Athens  as  a  champion  of  the  Macedonian  influ- 
ence, but  afterwards  incurred  the  penalty  of  arifila. 

228-230,  209-34.  I  will  search  you  .  .  .  search  no 
more.  This  episode  is  suggested  by  the  following  passage  con- 
cerning the  Count  of  Auvergne  in  Appendix  B.  "  Hee  was  ready 
to  call  the  two  brothers  of  Murat  into  his  cabinet,  and  to  cause 
them  to  be  searcht,  for  that  he  was  well  advertised  that  they 
alwayes  carryed  the  Kings  letters  and  his  commandments.  But  a 
great  resolution,  thinking  that  there  is  no  more  harme  in  fearing, 
then  in  the  thing  that  causeth  feare,  feares  extremely  to  make 
shewe  that  hee  hath  any  feare." 

233,  24.  Two  .  .  .  Hercules.  A  proverbial  expression. 
Cf.  V,  iv,  34-5. 

234,  14-25-  When  Homer  .  .  .  despis'd.  The  editor 
of  the  1873  edition  of  Chapman's  Plays  points  out  that  "these 
twelve  lines  headed  Of  great  men  appear,  with  a  few  unimportant 
verbal  differences,  among  the  Epigrams  printed  at  the  end  of  Chap- 
man's Petrarch  in  1 612." 

234,  20.  for  disposing  these:  for  regulating  these  gifts  of 
fame,  strength,  noble  birth,  and  beauty.  These  is  used  loosely  to 
quality  the  nouns  implied  by  the  adjectives,  Strong' st,  noblest,  fairest, 
in  1.  19. 

236,  56-7.  You  can  ,  .  .  minde.  If  the  text  is  correct, 
the  lines  mean  ;  you  can  never  find  means  to  give  attention  to 
externals  without  neglecting  the  improvement  of  your  mind.  Mr. 
Brereton  has  suggested  to  the  editor  that  the  true  reading  may  be. 
Things  out  ivorth  care,  in  which  case  "  out  "  r=  "  outward." 

236,  58-75.  God  .  .  .  birth.  A  free  paraphrase  of  the 
Discourses  of  Epictetus,  bk.  iv,  vii,  6—11. 

236,  78-9.  But  .  .  .  honour,  but  the  reason  alleged,  to  see 
these  battalions  in  review  order,  is  a  great  compliment  to  you. 

237,  84-95.  I  over-tooke  .  .  .  the  Earle  of  Oxford. 
The  subject  of  this  remarkable  encomium  was  Edward  de  Vere 
( I  550-1 604),  seventeenth  Earl  of  Oxford.  He  was  educated  at 
Cambridge,  and  from  an  early  age  became  a  prominent  figure  at 
the  Court  of  Elizabeth,  who,  it  was  said  in   1573,  *'delighteth 


302  jliote0 

more  in  his  personage,  and  his  dancing  and  valiantness,  than  any 
other."  In  1575  he  paid  a  visit  to  Italy,  and  it  is  apparently  to  an 
episode  on  his  return  journey  in  the  spring  of  1576  that  reference 
is  made  here,  and  in  the  following  lines.  The  portrait  here  drawn 
of  him  is  too  flattering,  as  he  was  violent  in  temper  and  extrava- 
gant, but  the  Earl's  literary  gifts  merited  the  praise  of  Chapman. 
Puttenham  and  Meres  speak  highly  of  him  as  a  writer  of  comedy, 
and  Webbe  pays  a  tribute  to  his  excellence  in  "  the  rare  devises  of 
poetry."    Over  twenty  of  his  lyrics  survive,  chiefly  in  anthologies. 

237,  95-103.  being  offer'd  .  .  .  quit.  The  Duke  Cas- 
simere  here  spoken  of  was  John  Casimir,  Count  Palatine,  who  in 
the  autumn  of  1575  entered  into  alliance  with  the  Huguenots  and 
invaded  France,  but,  after  suffering  a  check  at  the  hands  of  the 
Duke  of  Guise,  made  a  truce  and  retired.  The  incident  here 
spoken  of  apparently  took  place  in  the  spring  of  the  next  year  (cf. 
the  previous  note).  Why,  however,  does  Chapman  introduce  it 
here,  and  how  did  he  know  of  it  ?  Can  he,  immediately  after  leav- 
ing Oxford,  which  he  entered,  according  to  Wood,  "in  1574,  or 
thereabouts,"  have  gone  in  Oxford's  train  to  the  Continent  ? 

238,  112.  a  Sir  John  Smith.  Though  alluded  to  in  so 
contemptuous  a  way,  this  Sir  John  Smith  appears  to  be  the  noted 
soldier  of  fortune,  diplomatist,  and  military  writer,  who  lived  from 
about  1534  to  1607.  After  serving  for  many  years  in  continental 
armies,  in  1574  he  became  an  agent  of  the  English  government, 
and  took  part  in  various  diplomatic  missions.  In  1590  he  published 
"  Certain  Discourses  concerning  the  formes  and  effects  of  divers  sorts 
of  Weapons  ' '  and  dedicated  the  work  to  the  English  nobility,  whom 
he  calls  in  one  part  of  his  "  proeme  "  the  "  verie  eyes,  eares  and 
language  of  the  king,  and  the  bodie  of  the  watch,  and  redresse  of 
the  Commonwealth."  Hence  perhaps  the  allusion  in  1.  113  to 
"  common  Nobles  fashions." 

238-9,  127-41.  If  you  would   Consull  be  ...  no 

thought?  A  translation  of  the  Discourses  of  Epictetus,  bk.  iv,  x, 
20—22. 

238-9,  129-30.  gloryfying  Plebeians,  Kissing  Pa- 
tricians hands.  Epictetus  has  simply,  ras  x^'^po-S  KaTa(pi\ri(Tai. 

239,134-  sit  for  the  whole  tribunal!.  A  mistranslation 
of  eiri  /3^/xo  KaOiaai,  i.  e.  "  sit  on  the  tribunal." 

239,  138-9.  And  to  bevoide  .  .  .  constancie.    An 


il5ote0  303 

obscure  rendering  of  uirhp  airaOelas  odu,  uirep   arapa^las.    For 

constancie  ■=  for  the  sake  of  tranquillity  of  mind. 

240,152-  Colonell.  Clermont  seems  to  be  addressed  by  this 
title  because  of  the  statement  in  Appendix  B  that  "  D'Eurre  in- 
treated  the  count  of  Auvergne  to  see  [the  muster]  to  the  ende  .  .  . 
that  all  his  companions  should  be  wonderfully  honored  with  the 
presence  of  their  coronell." 

242-3,  11-39-  What  spirit  ...  of  the  skie.  This 
account  of  Clermont's  desperate  struggle  to  avoid  capture  is  an  in- 
vention of  Chapman.  P.  Matthieu  says  of  the  Count  of  Auvergne: 
"  It  was  feared  that  he  would  not  have  suffered  himselfe  to  bee 
taken  so  easily  nor  so  quietly."    Cf.  Appendix  B. 

245,  77.  "Who  .  .  .  none."   Cf  m,  ii,  242. 

245,  80-5.  But  .  .  .  more.  Cf.  Appendix  B.  "  Hee  was 
mooved  to  see  himselfe  so  intreated  by  laquais,  intreating  D'Eurre 
.    .    .   that  hee  might  not  see  those  rascals  any  more." 

246,  99.  organe  of  his  danger  :  instrument  of  his  dan- 
gerous designs. 

246,  109.  To  leave  .  .  .  trumpets.  Cf.  Appendix  B. 
"  '  Well,'  said  hee,  *  I  yeeld,  what  will  you  have  mee  to  doe  ? ' 
'  That  you  mount  upon  the  trompets  horse,'  sayd  D'Eurre." 

247,  112-24.  let  mee  begge  .  .  .  rather  die.  Cf. 
Appendix  B.  "He  intreated  D'Eurre  to  lend  him  one  of  his  troupe 
to  carry  some  message  of  his  remembrance,  and  of  his  miserie,  to 
a  ladie  that  attended  him.  .  .  .  Shee  loved  him  well,  and  was  well 
beloved  :  for  the  Count  of  Auvergne  hath  been  heard  say,  that  if  the 
King  did  set  him  at  libertie  and  send  him  back  to  his  house,  uppon 
condition  that  he  should  not  see  this  ladie,  hee  would  rather  desire 
to  die." 

250,  30.  Something  .  .  .  goe.  An  obscure  line.  It 
seems  to  mean  that,  as  the  wealth  of  merchants  may  be  scattered 
by  storms,  so  the  performances  of  "  state-merchants"  or  rulers  may 
be  cut  short  before  obtaining  their  end. 

254,  44-5-  let  .  ,  -  danger  :  let  them  be  afraid  that  the 
precedents  set  by  Kings  in  violating  obligations  may  prove  a  danger- 
ous example. 

255,  70-76.  O  knew  I  ...  a  pistoll.  Cf  Appendix  B. 
"  If  I  knew  .    .    .   that  I  might  save  him,  in  forcing  through  your 


304  jjiotcsf 

troupe,  I  would  willingly  doe  it,  and  if  I  had  but  tenne  men  of  my 
courage  and  resolution,  you  should  not  carrie  him  where  you  thinke. 
But  I  will  never  die  till  I  have  given  D'Eurre  a  hundred  shott  with 
a  pistoll,  and  to  Murat  a  hundred  blowes  with  a  sword." 

256,  87.  Exit  Ancil[la].  i.e.  Riova,  the  Countess's  wait- 
ing-maid. 

257,  108.  This  .  .  .  charge.  The  thrifty  Usher  is  ap- 
parently deploring  that  the  Countess,  before  retiring,  had  sent  so 
rich  a  gift  of  jewels  to  Clermont. 

259,  42-3.  this  Senecall  man  .  .  .  compare.  He  is 
so  completely  a  Senecall  man  that  he  may  be  compared  with,  etc. 

259,  51-3-  Cacusses  .  ,  .  still.  The  legend  of  the  Italian 
shepherd  and  robber  Cacus,  who  carried  his  plunder  to  his  cave  or 
"den,"  is  told  by  Ovid  [Fasti,  i,  544  ff. ),  Virgil  [^neid,  viii, 
190  ff. ),  and  other  writers. 

260,  57-8.  Better  .  .  ,  thrive  :  it  were  better  for  a  man 
to  be  buried  alive  than  exist  as  a  mere  property  for  a  despoliating 
government  to  grow  rich  upon. 

265,  98-102.  the  late  ...  on  him.  It  is  singular  that 
Bussy  D^  Ambois  contains  no  such  "  dying  prophesie  "  as  is  here 
alluded  to,  unless  the  reference  is  to  v,  iv,  76-78.  Bussy,  as  he  dies, 
forgives  his  murderers  (v,  iv,  112). 

267,  37-9.  Hast  thou  .  .  .  Reimes.  Cf.  Appendix  B. 
"  At  the  Barricades  this  voice  was  heard  :  '  It  is  no  longer  time  to 
dally,  let  us  lead  my  lord  to  Reimes.'  " 

268,  53.   The  cause  alike  doth.     The  same  cause  doth. 
268,  55-61.    which  .  .  .  counsailes.    Cf.  Appendix  B. 

"  Advertisements  were  come  to  him  from  all  parts,  both  within 
and  without  the  realme,  from  Rome,  Spaine,  Lorraine,  and  Savoye, 
that  a  bloodie  catastrophe  would  dissolve  the  assemblie." 

268-69,  62-8.  Retyre  .  .  .  exhale.  Cf.  Appendix  B. 
"The  Archbishop  of  Lion  .  .  .  '  Retyring  yourselfe  from  the 
Estates'  (said  he  unto  him)  'you  shall  beare  the  blame  to  have 
abandoned  France  in  so  important  an  occasion,  and  your  enemies, 
making  their  profit  of  your  absence,  vvil  sone  overthrowe  al  that 
which  you  have  with  so  much  paine  effected  for  the  assurance  of 
religion.'  " 

270,  89-91.  To  be  •  .  .  eternitie:  to  be  His  image  is  to 


#ote0  305 

do  the  deeds  that  confer  immortality,  which,  owing  to  the  existence 
of  death,  consists  only  in  doing  the  deeds  that  befit  eternal  life. 

270,  102.  Thou  dream'st  avrake  now.  Guise  here 
turns  Clermont's  own  words  in  1.  41  against  him. 

272,  144.-8.  those  loveliest  eyes  .  .  .  teares.  A  much 
more  overwhelming  calamity  than  that  which  befell  the  lady  in  the 
original  narrative,  where  it  is  stated  that  owing  to  her  "  passion 
.   .    .  she  lost  the  sight  of  one  eye  for  a  tyme. ' ' 

276,  18-19.  for  not  .  .  .  neglect :  for  the  counsels  that 
you  disclose  you  do  not  render  of  no  account. 

278,  29.  this  mortal  quarrie  :  this  deadly  attack.  Scarry 
is  generally  used  of  slaughtered  game,  but  it  also  signifies  the  attack 
or  swoop  of  the  bird  or  beast  of  prey  on  its  victim,  and  here  we  have 
an  extension  of  this  sense. 

280,  3-6.  I  .  ,  .  enter.  Chapman  here  combines  two  episodes 
assigned  by  De  Serres  to  different  days.  Cf.  Appendix  B.  *'  The 
eve  before  his  death,  the  Duke  himseLfe  sitting  down  to  dinner, 
found  a  scroule  under  his  napkin,  advertising  him  of  this  secret  am- 
bush." On  the  following  morning  "the  Duke  of  Guise  comes, 
and  attending  the  beginning  of  the  councell  sends  for  a  handkercher. 
.  .  .  Pericart,  his  secretarie  .  .  .  ties  a  note  to  one  of  the  corners 
thereof,  saying,  '  Come  forth  and  save  your  selfe,  else  you  are  but 
a  dead  man.'  " 

281,  34-5.  Not  .  .  .  goe.  Taken  in  conjunction  with  III, 
iii,  24,  this  means  :  Hercules  is  no  match  for  two  foes,  but  Guise 
will  encounter  two,  though  with  Hercules  as  their  ally. 

283,  61-3.  y'have  a  brother  to  ...  on  him.  Louis  de 
Lorraine,  youngest  brother  of  the  Duke  of  Guise,  became  Archbishop 
of  Rheims  in  1574,  and  Cardinal  in  1578. 

286,  33-4.  the  sword  .  .  .  life.  Cf.  Bussy  D'Ambois,  v, 
iv,  114-118. 

286,  41-2.  Hee  will  lie  .  .  .  shee  cryes.  This  habit  of 
the  lapwing  gave  the  bird  an  evil  reputation  as  a  symbol  of  deceit- 
fulness.     Cf.  Measure  for  Measure,  i,  iv,  32. 

Though  'tis  my  familiar  sin 
With  maids  to  seem  the  lapwing  and  to  jest. 
Tongue  far  from  heart. 

For  a  sarcastic  hit  at  a  different  trick  of  the  lapwing,  cf.  Hamlet, 
V,  ii,  174. 


3o6  ^ppenDlF  ^ 

289,  85.  [Enter  Renel,  the  Countess,  and]  Char- 
lotte above.  The  addition  of  the  bracketed  words  is  necessary,  as 
the  Q  gives  no  indication  of  the  entrance  of  these  two  characters. 
They  appear  with  Charlotte  "  above,"  i.  e.  in  a  gallery  at  the  back 
of  the  stage.  When  Charlotte,  enraged  at  Clermont's  slowness  in 
dispatching  Montsurry,  "  gets  downe  "  (1.  87),  they  remain  in  the 
gallery  unobserved. 

291,  125-7-  That  the  Shatillions  ghost  .  .  .  death. 
Caspar  de  Chatillon,  better  known  as  Admiral  de  Coligny,  the  cham- 
pion of  the  Huguenot  party,  was  murdered  during  "the  Massacre 
of  St.  Bartholomew,"  on  Aug.  24,  1572,  at  the  instigation  of  the 
Duke  of  Guise. 

293,  161.  I  ,  .  .  descend.  Renel  and  the  Countess  have 
overheard  from  the  gallery  (cf.  note  on  1.  85  )  Clermont's  speech,  and 
Renel,  realising  that  it  foreshadows  suicide,  descends  in  the  hope  of 
preventing  this.  But,  as  he  has  to  lead  his  blind  companion,  his  pro- 
gress is  slow,  and  when  they  "  enter  "  the  main  stage  (1.  203),  it 
is  too  late. 


APPENDIX   A 


DE  LA   MORT  PITOYABLE  DU  VALEUREUX 

LYSIS 

Under  this  title,  in  the  17  th  of  the  series  of  tales 
founded  on  fact  which  he  calls  Les  Histoires  Tragiques 
de  Nostre  Temps,  Francois  de  Rosset  relates  in  1615  the 
story  of  Bussy'  s  death.  In  the  Preface  to  the  volume 
he  declares:  "  Ce  ne  sont  pas  des  contes  de  T  Antiquite 
fabuleuse  .  .  .  Ce  sont  des  histoires  autant  veritables 
que  tristes  et  funestes.  Les  noms  de  la  pluspart  des  per- 
sonnages  sont  seulement  desguisez  en  ce  Theatre,  a  fin  de 


n'affliger  pas  tant  les  families  de  ceux  qui  en  ont  donne 
le  suject,  puis  qu'elles  en  sont  assez  affligees."  We  thus 
find  that  the  outlines  of  the  story  of  "  Lysis  "  tally  with 
what  we  know  about  Bussy  from  other  sources,  and 
Rosset  not  improbably  preserves  details  omitted  by  the 
historians  of  the  period. 

Lysis,  Rosset  tells  us,  was  sprung  from  one  of  the  most 
noble  and  renowned  Houses  of  France.  At  seventeen 
he  had  acquired  an  extraordinary  reputation  for  bravery, 
which  increased  till  "jamais  la  France  depuis  le  valeur- 
eux  Roland,  ne  porta  un  tel  Palladin."  Afterwards  "  il 
vint  a  la  cour  du  Prince  qui  venoit  de  quiter  une 
Couronne  estrangere,  pour  recevoir  celle  qui  luy  apparte- 
noit  par  les  droits  de  la  loy  Salique,  [i.  e.  Henry  IH,  who 
gave  up  the  throne  of  Poland  on  succeeding  to  that  of 
France.]  .  .  .  Les  rares  dons  dont  il  estoit  accomply  luy 
acquirent  tant  de  part  aux  bonnes  graces  du  premier 
Prince  du  sang  Royal,  quMl  estoit  tousiours  aupres  de 
luy.  .  .  .  Maisl'envie  .  .  .  tous  les  jours  .  .  .  faisait 
de  mauvais  rapports  a  sa  Maieste  de  Lysis,  de  sorte 
qu'elle  le  voyoit  d'aussi  mauvais  ceil,  que  T autre  Prince, 
son  proche  parent,  faisoit  conte  de  sa  prouesse." 

He  had  never  been  the  victim  of  love,  but  he  was  in- 
stantly captivated  by  the  beautiful  eyes  of  a  lady  whom 
he  met  at  an  assembly  at  the  house  of  a  Judge  in  one  of 
the  towns  of  which  he  was  Governor. 

"  Ceste  beaute,  pour  le  respect  que  je  dois  a  ceux  a  qui 
elle  appartenoit,  sera  nommee  Sylvie.  .  .  .  Cette  dame  .  .  . 
estoit  mariee  avec  un  grand  Seigneur,  jeune,  vaillan,  sage. 


3o8  0ppenDi)t:  ^ 

discret  et  courtois. "  She  would  not  at  first  gratify  her 
lover's  passion,  though  she  granted  him  "  de  petites  pri- 
vautez,"  which  only  fanned  the  flame.  He  wrote  her 
a  letter  in  which  he  declared  that  if  she  refused  him  her 
favour,  it  meant  his  sentence  of  death.  She  replied  in 
a  temporising  manner  that  when  he  had  given  proofs  of  his 
fidelity,  she  would  decide  as  to  what  she  ought  to  do. 
Rosset  asserts  that  these  two  letters  are  not  invented,  but 
that  he  obtained  them  from  a  friend  who  had  made  a  col- 
lection of  such  epistles,  and  who  "  a  este  curieux  de  s^z- 
voir  le  nom  des  personnes  qui  les  ont  escrites." 

Meanwhile,  he  continues,  "elle  donne  le  vray  moyen 
a  Lysis  de  la  voir,  sans  le  souciet  qu'on  en  parle,  pour- 
veu  que  sa  conscience  la  defl^ende.  Et  particulierement  ce 
fut  en  un  jardin  qui  est  a  T  un  des  fauxbourgs  de  la  ville. ' ' 
Some  tale-bearers,  putting  the  worst  construction  on  their 
behaviour,  gave  information  to  Lisandre,  the  husband  of 
Sylvie,  but  he  refused  to  credit  anything  to  the  dishonour 
of  his  wife.  To  stop  gossip,  however,  he  took  her  with 
him  to  a  house  he  had  not  far  from  the  town.  But  the 
lovers  communicated  with  one  another  by  messengers,  till 
Lisandre' s  departure  on  a  journey  removed  all  obstacle  to 
their  intercourse.  "  Ce  Seigneur  avait  des  affaires  hors  de 
la  province  ou  il  faisoit  pour  lors  sa  demeure.  Pour  les 
terminer,  il  s'y  achemine  au  grand  contentement  de  Sylvie, 
qui  neantmoins  contrefaisoit  la  dolente  a  son  depart  &  le 
sommoit  de  revenir  le  plustot  qu'il  luy  seroit  possible, 
tandis  que  dans  son  ame  elle  prioit  a  Dieu  que  son  voyage 
fust  aussi  long  que  celuy  d'  Ulysse. ' '    When  he  was  gone. 


she  immediately  sent  for  Lysis,  and  they  spent  two  or 
three  days  in  transports  of  delight,  though  she  continued 
to  safeguard  her  honour. 

On  Lisandre's  return  the  King,  instigated  by  the  ene- 
mies of  Lysis,  reproached  the  former  for  tamely  enduring 
dishonour,  and  bade  him  never  reappear  in  the  royal  pre- 
sence till  he  had  wiped  out  the  stain.  Lisandre  therefore 
offered  his  wife  the  choice  of  three  courses.  She  was  to 
swallow  poison,  or  die  beneath  his  dagger,  or  write  to 
Lysis,  telling  him  that  Lisandre  was  still  absent,  and 
begging  him  to  come  to  her.  After  a  struggle  Sylvie 
wrote  the  fatal  missive,  and  Lysis,  though  at  the  castle 
gate  he  was  overcome  by  a  premonition  of  evil  and  al- 
most turned  back,  was  obedient  to  her  summons,  and 
entered  her  chamber  unarmed.  The  final  scene  is  thus 
described. 

"A  r instant  il  se  void  environne  d'une  douzaine 
d'hommes  armez,  qui  de  pistolets,  qui  d'espees  nues,  et 
qui  de  hallebardes.  Lisandre  est  parmy  eux,  qui  luycrie: 
*  C  est  maintenant  que  tu  recevras  le  salaire  de  la  honte  que 
tu  as  faicte  a  ma  maison.  Ce  disant,  il  lasche  un  pistolet,  et 
luy  perce  un  bras.  Les  autres  le  chargent  avec  leurs  hale- 
bardes,  et  avec  leurs  espees.  .  .  .  Le  valeureux  Lysis  .  .  . 
avec  un  escabeau  qu'il  tient  en  main  donne  si  rudement 
sur  la  teste  de  I'unde  ses  adversaires,  qu'il  en  fait  sortir 
la  cervelle.  II  en  assomme  encores  deux  autres:  mais 
que  peut-il  faire  contretant  de  gens,  &ainsi  desarme  qu'il 
est  ?  Son  corps  perce  comme  un  crible,  verse  un  grand 
ruisseau  de  sang.    En  fin  il  se  jette  sur  Lisandre,  et  bien 


310  ^ppmnix  0 

que  par  derriere  on  luy  bailie  cent  coups  de  poignards,  il 
le  prend,  et  le  souleve,  prest  a  le  jetter  du  haut  en  bas  d'une 
fenestre,  si  tous  les  autres  ensemble,  en  se  jettant  sur  luy, 
ne  Ten  eussent  empesche.  II  les  escarte  encores  a  coups 
de  poings  &  neantmoins  il  sesent  tousiours  percer  de  part 
en  part.  Voyant  qu'il  ne  pouvoit  eschapper  la  mort,  il 
s'approche  de  la  fenestre  &  puis,  tout  sanglant  qu'il  est, 
il  saute  legerement  en  bas.  Mais,  6  malheur,  il  portoit  un 
accoustrement  decouppe,  qui  est  arreste  par  le  fer  d'un 
treillis.  Ses  adversaires  le  voyant  ainsi  empestre  comma 
un  autre  Absalon,  luy  donnent  tant  de  coups  de  hale- 
bardes,  qu'a  la  fin,  ils  privent  le  monde  du  plus  grand 
courage,  et  de  la  plus  grande  valeur  du  siecle.  O  valeur- 
eux  Lysis!   que  je  plains  T injustice  de  ton  sort!  " 

It  will  be  seen  that  Rosset'  s  account  of  the  final  episodes, 
beginning  with  the  intervention  of  the  King,  agrees,  in 
the  main  details,  with  the  following  description  by  De 
Thou,  which  appeared  in  1620,  in  the  Genevan  edition 
of  the  Historiae  Sui  Temporis,  lib.  LXViii,  p.  330  (vol. 
Ill,  p.  675,  of  Buckley's  edition,  1733). 

"  Dum  1  adhuc  Andinus  in  aula  esset,  literas  per  jocum 
regi  ostenderat  a  Ludovico  Claramontio  Ambosiano  Bussio 
ad  se  scriptas  ;  quibus,  pro  summa  quae  ei  cum  hero  suo 
juvene  erat  familiaritate,  significabat  se  feram  magni  vena- 
toris    (ita    uxorem    vocabat    Caroli    Cambii    Monsorelli 

1  While  the  Duke  of  Anjou  was  still  at  Court,  he  had  shown  in  jest  to 
the  King,  a  letter  which  had  been  written  to  him  by  Louis  de  Clermont 
Bussy  d'Ambois.  In  this  letter,  owing  to  the  very  intimate  terms  on 
which  he  stood  with  his  young  patron,  he  told  him  that  he  had  enclosed 
and  caught  in  his  net  the  hind  of  a  mighty  hunter.  Thus  he  termed  the 
wife  of  Charles  de  Chambes,  Count  of  Montsoreau,  on  whom  the  Duke 


comitis,  quern  ea  dignitate  Andinus  paulo  ante  Bussii 
commendatione  ornaverat)  indagine  cinxisse,  et  in  plagas 
conjecisse.  Quas  literas  rex  retinuerat,  et  Bussii  jam  a 
longo  tempore  insolenti  arrogantia  et  petulantia  irritatus, 
occasionem  inde  sumpsit  veteres  ab  eo  acceptas  injurias 
ulciscendi.  Is  siquidem,  et  dum  in  aula  esset,  nullo  non 
contumeliae  genere  in  proceres  et  gynaeceum  etiam  auli- 
cum  usus  fuerat,  fiducia  pugnacitatis  qua  se  terribilem 
cunctis  reddiderat  ;  sed  etiam  postquam  se  ad  comitatum 
Andini  receperat,  dum  Andegavi  arcem  toto  illo  tractu 
munitissimam  et  urbi  populosae  impositam  teneret,  oppi- 
danis  et  toti  provinciae  gravis  ob  crebras  exactiones,  quas 
privata  auctoritate,  non  consulto  plerumque  Andino  ipso, 
faciebat,  summum  omnium  odium  in  se  concitaverat. 
Igitur  rex  Monsorellum,  qui  tunc  forte  in  aula  erat,  clam 
revocat,  et  literas  Bussii  ei  ostendit;  additque  se  decoris 
familiaeetejus  dignitatis  perquam  studiosum,  noluisserem 
adeo  injuriosam  eum  celare  5  ceterum  scire  ipsum  debere, 
quid  consilii  in  tali  occasione  se  capere  deceat  et  oporteat. 

had  conferred  that  title  a  short  time  before,  at  the  recommendation  of 
Bussy.  This  letter  the  King  had  kept,  and  as  he  had  long  been  annoyed 
by  Bussy's  insolent  arrogance  and  his  petulant  temper,  he  availed  him- 
self of  this  opportunity  of  avenging  the  old  insults  he  had  received  from 
him.  Even  while  he  was  at  Court,  he  had  been  guilty  of  every  sort  of 
insult  to  nobles  and  Court  ladies,  trusting  to  his  prowess  as  a  swordsman, 
by  which  he  made  himself  a  terror  to  every  one.  So  also  after  he  had 
betaken  himself  to  the  district  of  Anjou,  occupying,  as  he  did,  the  cita- 
del of  Angers,  the  most  powerful  stronghold  in  all  that  district,  and  com- 
manding the  populous  city,  he  had  made  himself  a  burden  to  the  towns- 
people and  the  whole  province  by  his  frequent  exactions,  generally  made 
on  his  own  authority,  without  consulting  the  Duke  of  Anjou.  He  had 
thus  stirred  up  against  himself  a  deep-seated  and  universal  hatred. 

Therefore  the  King  secretly  called  aside  Montsoreau,  who  was  then  at 
Court,  and  showed  him  Bussy's  letter ;  and  added  that,  as  he  was  extremely 
solicitous  about  his  family  honour  and  his  dignity,  he  did  not  wish  to 
conceal  so  insulting  a  matter  from  him  ;  for  the  rest  he  ought  to  know  him- 
self what  measures  it  behoved   him  to  take  under  such  circumstances. 


312  ^penDijc  ^ 

Nee  plura  elocutus  hominem  dimittit,  qui,  non  solum  in- 
juriae  tantae  morsu  perculsus,  sed  monitis  regis  incitatus, 
quae  ille  tanquam  ignaviae  exprobationem  si  injuriam  ferret 
accipiebat,  protinus  domum  revolat,  summo  silentio,  ut 
Bussium  lateret:  astuque  per  uxorem  ad  Bussium  literas 
dari  curat,  quibus  ei  horam  ad  secretum  Coustanteriae  con- 
dicebat;  ea  erat  arx  voluptuaria  et  venationibus  opportuna; 
ad  quam  cum  Bussius  cum  Colladone  conscio  sub  vesperam 
XIV  Kal.  Sept.  venisset,  ab  ipso  Monsorello  et  aliis  lori- 
catis  oppressus  :  tamen,  qua  erat  animi  praesentia, 
quamvis  unus  contra  plures,  summa  vi  percussores  initio 
disjecit;  tandemque  numero  victus,  spiritu  inter  certandum 
deficiente,  cum  se  in  fossam  per  fenestram  praecipitare 
vellet,  a  tergo  interfectus  est." 

without  further  words  he  dismissed  Montsoreau.  The  Count,  stung  to 
the  quick  by  so  grave  an  injury  to  his  honour,  and  excited  by  the  admo- 
nitions of  the  King,  which  he  interpreted  as  reproaches  for  his  cowardice, 
should  be  tamely  bear  the  insult,  at  once  flew  home,  in  the  greatest 
secrecy,  so  that  Bussy  should  not  know  of  his  return.  By  a  stratagem 
he  arranged  that  a  letter  should  be  sent  by  his  wife  to  Bussy,  making 
a  secret  assignation  with  him  at  La  Coutanciere,  which  was  a  pleasure- 
resort  and  convenient  for  hunting  purposes.  When  Bussy  came  there 
with  his  associate  Colasseau  at  nightfall  on  the  nineteenth  of  August,  he 
was  fallen  upon  by  Montsoreau  and  other  armed  men.  Yet,  such  was  his 
coolness,  that  though  he  was  one  against  many,  he  at  first  by  mighty  exer- 
tions discomfited  his  assailants.  At  length,  overcome  by  numbers,  and 
breath  failing  him  in  the  struggle,  he  tried  to  throw  himself  out  of  the 
window  into  the  castle-moat,  but  was  stabbed  in  the  back  and  killed. 


APPENDIX   B 

HISTORICAL  SOURCES  OF  THE  REVENGE 
OF  BUSSY  D'AMBOIS 


Pierre  Matthieu's  Narrative  of  the  Arrest  of 
THE  Count  d'Auvergne,  Incorporated  by  Ed- 
ward Grimeston  in  his  Translation  of  Jean  de 
Serres's  Inventaire  General  de  l'Histoire  de 
France 

(1046.)  '  "The  King  ofFended  with  the  practises  of 
the  Count  of  Auvergne,  commanded  him  to  come  unto 
him,  and  to  trust  unto  his  clemency,  the  which  was  not 
unknowne  unto  him.  Descures  made  some  jorneys  unto 
him,  from  whome  he  brought  nothing  but  delaies  and 
excuses.    .    .   . 

(1047.)  "The  King,  therefore,  seeing  that  he  would 
not  come  but  with  conditions  that  did  not  agree  with  a 
perfect  obedience,  resolved  to  have  him  by  one  means  or 
other.  .  .  .  The  King's  intention  was  imparted  to  the 
Vicont  of  Pont  du  Chasteau,  to  D'  Eurre,  Lieutenant  of 
the  Duke  of  Vandosmes  company,  to  the  Baron  of  Cam- 
ilac,  to  La  Boulaye,  Lieutenant  to  the  company  of  the 
Marquis  of  Verneuil,  to  Nerestan,  Colonell  of  a  Regi- 
ment of  foote,  and  to  so  many  others  as  it  is  a  wonder  it 

1  The  numbers  refer  to  the  pages  of  Grimeston's  volume. 


314  ^ppmDij:  115 

was  not  divulged  being  in  so  many  heads.  In  this  action 
all  shewed  the  duties  and  affections  of  good  men  which 
respected  their  honours.  Many  means  were  attempted, 
but  they  were  incountred  with  great  difficulties  and  crosses. 
.  .  .  The  surest  meanes  (&  that  wherein  there  was  least 
trouble  and  scandall)  was  the  mustring  of  the  Duke  of 
Vandosmes  company.  .  .  .  D'Eurre  who  prest  Murat 
(Treasorer  extraordinary  of  the  warres)  to  paie  his  com- 
pany a  muster,  intreated  the  count  of  Auvergne  to  see 
it,  to  the  ende  hee  might  assure  the  King  that  hee  had 
gallant  men  and  good  horses,  and  that  all  his  companions 
should  be  wonderfully  honored  with  the  presence  of  their 
coronell.  '  I  will  part  to  morrowe '  sayd  the  Count  of 
Auvergne  'to  hunt  at  Alezou,  and  will  retume  againe 
on  Monday  at  night ;  I  pray  you  bee  heere  at  super, 
and  lodge  your  company  at  Normain,  to  the  ende  that 
the  next  day,  after  that  wee  have  dronke,  runne  at  the 
ring,  and  dined,  we  may  see  it.' 

(1048.)  "This  was  done  as  he  had  appointed  .  .  . 
D'Eurre  came  to  Clermont  on  Monday  at  night,  and 
goes  unto  him  where  he  supped  in  one  of  their  houses 
that  managed  this  businesse  .  .  .  The  next  day,  the 
ninth  of  November,  the  morning  was  spent  in  running  at 
the  ring  .  .  .  They  went  to  dinner,  and  it  was  well 
observed  that  the  Count  of  Auvergne  had  some  distrust. 
He  hath  since  confest  that  hee  was  ready  to  call  the  two 
brothers  of  Murat  into  his  cabinet,  and  to  cause  them  to 
be  searcht,  for  that  he  was  well  advertised  that  they  al- 
wayes  carryed  the  Kings  letters  and  his  commandments. 


^ppenDtF  115  315 

But  a  great  resolution,  thinking  that  there  is  no  more 
harme  in  fearing  then  in  the  thing  that  causeth  feare, 
feares  extremely  to  make  shewe  that  hee  hath  any  feare. 
After  dinner  D'Eurre  asked,  '  If  it  pleased  him  to  go  to 
horse  to  see  the  musters.'  He  answered  him;  'That  it 
should  be  presently,  and  that  he  should  use  speed.'  He 
retyred  himselfe  soone  after  into  his  cabinet  and  went 
downe  .  .  .  mounted  upon  a  Scottish  horse  (which 
Vitry  had  given  him)  the  which  would  have  outrunne  all 
the  horses  of  France.  He  would  not  attend  the  other 
noblemen  for  that  he  distrusted  them,  having  an  intent 
to  passe  on,  if  he  found  them  not  ready.  But  beeing 
come  to  the  place,  he  found  the  company  in  battell. 
This  great  diligence  made  him  somewhat  jealous,  and 
they  might  perceive  him,  that,  pulling  up  his  cloake,  he 
drewe  his  sword  foure  fingers  out,  yet  without  any  amaze- 
ment. D'Eurre,  seeing  him  make  even  the  reynes  of  his 
horse,  came  to  him  trotting,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand, 
and  hearing  him  sweare  with  a  great  oath  that  he  had  been 
very  dilligent,  '  You  may  see,  my  lord '  (answered  he) 
'  I  have  caused  my  companions  to  advance,  for  that  I 
would  not  trouble  you  with  attendance.'  'Monsieur 
D'  Eurre '  (replyed  the  Earle)  <  you  are  one  of  my 
friends,  I  cannot  make  any  long  stay  here.'  To  whome 
D'  Eurre  said  :  '  All  my  companions  are  not  yet  here, 
but,  if  it  please  you,  you  shall  see  this  troupe,  and  judge 
of  the  whole  by  a  part. '  Hereupon  he  sees  some  horse- 
men come  and  demands  what  they  were.  D'Eurre  told 
him  :   *  That  it  was  Nerestan,  who  had  beene  at  Rion 


3i6  ^pntlii)c)15 

about  a  sute  of  his  daughters.'  He  beleeved  it,  for  he 
knewe  that  Nerestan  had  stayd  some  dayes  at  Rion,  and 
yet  his  heart  began  to  suspect  more.  But  it  was  too  late, 
hee  was  environed  on  every  side,  and  hardly  can  one  re- 
sist many.  Nerestan  lighted  to  salute  him,  and  having 
entertayned  him  with  some  discourse  uppon  the  occasion 
of  his  staye  at  Rion,  or  of  his  retume  to  Court,  he  went 
presently  to  horse-back,  and  thrust  on  one  of  the  lack- 
quaies  with  his  foote,  for  a  signe  and  token  of  the  begin- 
ning of  the  execution. 

"  One  of  Nerestans  three  lackquaies  takes  holde  of  his 
horse  by  the  bridle.  D'Eurre,  seeing  that  Nerestan  had 
taken  the  right  side  to  salute  the  Count  of  Auvergne, 
went  unto  the  left,  and  laying  hold  with  his  hand  uppon 
the  hilt  of  his  sword,  he  sayd  unto  him  that  hee  had  com- 
mandement  from  the  King  to  take  him.  The  other  two 
laquais  pulled  him  so  roughly  from  his  horse,  as  he  had 
like  to  have  fallen  to  the  ground  ;  hee  was  mooved  to  see 
himselfe  so  intreated  by  laquais,  intreating  D'Eurre  to 
cause  two  of  his  companions  to  light,  and  that  hee  might 
not  see  those  rascalls  any  more.  Nerestan  sayd  unto  him 
that  they  were  soldiars  so  attyred  to  serve  the  King  in 
this  action.  A  peece  shott  into  the  ayre  by  chance  made 
him  to  doubt  worse  measure,  so  as  hee  intreated  D'Eurre 
that  he  would  not  use  his  pistolet.  D'Eurre  freed  him 
from  these  apprehensions,  intreating  him  to  resolve  upon 
the  Kings  will,  and  not  to  force  them  to  intreat  him 
otherwise  than  they  desired.  <  Well,'  said  hee,  'I  yeeld, 
what  will  you  have   mee  to  doe  ? '    *  That  you  mount 


upon  the  trompets  horse,'  sayd  D'Eurre.  It  was  feared 
that  he  would  not  have  suffered  himselfe  to  bee  taken 
so  easily  nor  so  quietly,  as  wee  have  seene  many  great 
courages  choose  rather  to  be  cut  in  peeces  then  to  see 
themselves  reserved  for  some  shamefull  end,  and  others 
that  have  willingly  dyed,  for  that  they  would  not  die  by 
force.  When  as  he  sees  himselfe  in  the  toyles  invironed 
on  al  sides  .  .  .  hee  sayd,  '  Ah  !  in  the  Divels  name, 
I  doubted  all  this.'  Being  mounted  upon  the  trompets 
nagg,  they  conduct  him  presently  to  Aigueperse.  Before 
hee  had  gone  a  hundred  paces,  he  intreated  D'Eurre  to 
lend  him  one  of  his  troupe,  to  carry  some  message  of  his 
remembrance,  and  of  his  miserie,  to  a  ladie  that  attended 
him.  De  Pleche  had  the  charge.  Shee  who  had  not  pre- 
pared her  heart  to  withstand  the  assaults  of  a  most  ex- 
treame  and  sensible  griefe,  tooke  D'  Eurre  for  the  object, 
against  whome  shee  poured  forth  the  furie  of  her  passions. 
*  If  I  knew '  (sayd  shee  unto  this  gentleman)  '  that  I 
might  save  him  in  forcing  through  your  troupe,  I  would 
willingly  doe  it,  and  if  I  had  but  tenne  men  of  my  cour- 
age and  resolution,  you  should  not  carrie  him  where  you 
thinke.  But  I  will  never  die  till  I  have  given  D'Eurre 
a  hundred  shott  with  a  pistoU,  and  to  Murat  a  hundred 
blowes  with  a  sword.'  These  were  the  passions  of  her 
love,  transported  with  a  resolution  beyond  her  sexe,  and 
which  did  participate  of  a  man,  of  a  troubled  mind,  and 
of  love.  This  last  makes  miracles  of  marvells  and  marvells 
of  miracles,  in  wills  that  are  equally  toucht  with  his 
inspirations  .   •   .   Shee   loved   him  well,   and   was   well 


31 8  jappenDir  115 

beloved  :  for  the  Count  of  Auvergne  hath  been  heard 
say,  that  if  the  King  did  set  him  at  libertie,  and  send  him 
back  to  his  house,  uppon  condition  that  hee  should  not  see 
this  ladie,  hee  would  rather  desire  to  die.  Shee  presently 
ordered  the  affaires  of  her  house,  the  disposition  of  her 
furniture,  and  the  retreat  of  her  servants.  This  passion 
going  from  the  memorie  to  the  thought,  from  the  thought 
to  the  heart,  from  the  heart  to  the  eyes,  made  her  to 
powre  forth  so  many  teares,  as  shee  lost  the  sight  of  one 
eye  for  a  tyme.    .   .   . 

"  All  the  way  hee  seemed  no  more  afflicted,  then  when 
hee  was  at  libertie.  He  tould  youthful!  and  idle  tales  of 
his  love,  and  the  deceiving  of  ladies.  Hee  shott  in  a  har- 
quebuse  at  birds,  wherein  hee  was  so  perfect  and  excel- 
lent, as  hee  did  kill  larkes  as  they  were  flying.  .  .  . 

(1050.)  "  We  may  observe  in  this  apprehension  many 
things  that  may  breed  admiration  and  amazement,  and 
which  shewe  that  men  do  in  vaine  furnish  themselves  with 
wisedome  against  Heaven  and  with  intelligences  against  the 
King.  The  Count  of  Auvergne  had  advertisements  from 
all  places  that  they  should  take  him,  and  that  the  Kings 
pensioners  were  in  the  field  to  that  effect.  His  most  in- 
ward and  neerest  friends  and,  among  others  Florae, 
knewe  it,  and  said  nothing  unto  him,  preferring  his  duty 
to  his  Prince  before  all  affection.  The  Constable  was 
also  as  well  informed  thereof  as  any  other  and  yet  he 
made  no  shewe  thereof.  .  .  .  His  duty  prescribed  him  a 
law  to  all  the  bounds  of  nature  ;  so  there  is  not  any 
one  but  is  more  bound  to  the  service  of  the  King  and  his 


country  then  to  his  owne  health,  or  to  that  of  his  chil- 
dren. A  gentleman,  being  at  his  table,  speaking  of  this 
taking,  said,  '  Sir,  if  the  King  should  command  mee  to 
take  you,  I  would  doe  it,  although  I  bee  your  most 
humble  servant,  that  you  march  in  the  first  rankes  of  great- 
nesse  in  the  realm,  and  that  all  things  touching  armes,  de- 
pend upon  your  commandments.'  'I  beleeve  if  (an- 
swered the  Constable)  '  else  you  should  do  ill,  for  the 
King  is  both  your  King  and  mine.  I  am  your  friend.' 
There  is  no  love  nor  affection  to  dispence  any  one  from 
the  Kings  commandments." 

II 

Grimeston's  Translation  of  J.  de  Serres's  Narra- 
tive OF  THE  Murder  of  the  Duke  of  Guise  in  his 
Inventaire  General 

The  King  determines  to  get  rid  of  Guise,  "  this  newe 
starre  in  the  East  whom  the  people  worshipped  already. ' ' 
(722.)  *«  Hee  hath  caused  bookes  to  bee  printed  in  favour 
of  the  lawfiiU  succession  of  the  House  of  Lorraine  to  the 
Crowne.  At  the  Barricades  this  voice  was  heard  :  '  It  is 
no  longer  time  to  dally,  let  us  lead  my  lord  to  Reimes. ' 
He  hath  suffered  himselfe  to  be  saluted  by  the  people, 
with  cries  and  acclamations  which  belong  only  to  the  Sov- 
eraigne  Prince." 

The  Duke,  scenting  danger,  thinks  of  absenting  himself 
from  the  meetings  of  the  Estates,  but  is  dissuaded. 

(723.)  "The  Archbishop  of  Lion,  attending  a  Cardi- 


320  ^ppfnDit:  115 

iials  hatt  within  a  few  dayes  from  Rome,  '  Retyring  your 
selfe  from  the  Estates '  (said  he  unto  him)  '  you  shall 
beare  the  blame  to  have  abandoned  France  in  so  import- 
ant an  occasion,  and  your  enemies,  making  their  profit 
of  your  absence,  wil  sone  overthrowe  al  that  which  you 
have  with  so  much  paine  effected  for  the  assurance  of  reli- 
gion.' 

"  Man  doth  often  loose  his  judgement  upon  the  point  of 
his  fal.  Advertisements  were  come  to  him  from  all  parts, 
both  within  and  without  the  realme,  from  Rome,  Spaine, 
Lorraine  and  Savoye,  that  a  bloodie  catastrophe  would 
dissolve  the  assemblie.  The  almanakes  had  well  ob- 
served it  :  it  was  generally  bruted  in  the  Estates,  that  the 
execution  should  be  on  Saint  Thomas  day.  The  eve 
before  his  death,  the  Duke  himselfe  sitting  downe  to  din- 
ner, found  a  scroule  under  his  napkin,  advertising  him  of 
this  secret  ambush.  But  (as  ambition  blinds  those  whome 
shee  hath  raised  up  to  the  pies  nest,  and  the  furie  of  Gods 
judgements  confounds  such  as  trust  in  their  authoritie) 
he  writ  underneath,  with  his  owne  hand  *  They  dare 
not '  :  and  threw  it  under  the  table. 

"  The  Duke  of  Guise,  following  the  councell  of  the 
Cardinall  Morosin,  had  the  one  and  twentith  of  Decem- 
ber incensed  the  King  a  new  by  some  bold  and  presump- 
tous  speeches.  .  .  .  The  King  had  the  two  and  twentith 
day  following  prepared  seven  of  his  five  and  fortie  (they 
were  gentlemen  whome  hee  had  appointed  to  be  neere 
his  person,  besides  the  ordinarie  archers  of  his  gard)  to 
execute  his  will,  and  by  many  dispatches  had  assured 


^PpenDip  115  321 

those  townes  which  hee  held  to  bee  most  mutinous.  The 
three  and  twentith  he  assembles  his  Councell  somewhat 
more  early  in  the  morning  then  was  usuall,  having  a  de- 
votion to  go  after  dinner,  and  to  spend  the  holidayes  at 
our  Ladie  of  Clery.  .  .  .  The  Duke  of  Guise  comes, 
and  attending  the  beginning  of  the  councell  sends  for 
a  handkercher  :  (the  groome  of  [724]  his  chamber  had 
forgotten  to  put  one  into  his  hose.)  Pericart,  his  secre- 
tarie,  not  daring  to  commit  this  new  advertisement  to 
any  mans  report,  ties  a  note  to  one  of  the  comers 
thereof,  saying,  '  Come  forth  and  save  your  selfe,  else 
you  are  but  a  dead  man.'  But  they  stay  the  page  that 
carried  it.  Larchant,  captaine  of  the  Kings  gard,  caus- 
eth  an  other  to  be  given  unto  him  with  all  speed  by  Saint 
Prix,  the  chiefe  grome  of  the  Kings  chamber.  The 
Castle  gates  are  shutt,  and  the  Councell  sits  about  eight 
of  the  clocke. 

"The  spirit  of  man  doth  often  prophecie  of  the  mis- 
cheefe  that  doth  pursue  him.  So  whilest  they  dispute  of 
a  matter  propounded  by  Petremolle,  the  Duke  feeles 
strange  alterations,  and  extraordinary  distemperatures, 
and,  amidest  his  distrust,  a  great  fainting  of  his  heart. 
Saint  Prix  presents  unto  him  some  prunes  of  Brignolles 
and  raisins  of  the  sunne.  Hee  eats,  and  thereupon  the 
King  calls  him  into  his  Cabinet  by  Revoll,  one  of  the 
secretaries  of  his  Estate,  as  it  were  to  confer  with  him 
about  some  secret  of  importance.  The  Duke  leaves  the 
Councell  to  passe  unto  the  Cabinet  :  and  as  he  did  lift  up 
the  tapistrie  with  one   hand  to  enter,  they  charge  him 


322  ^ppcnDtF  115 

with  their  swords,  daggers,  and  pertuisans  :  yet  not  with 
so  great  violence,  but  he  shewed  the  murtherers  the  last 
endeavours  of  an  invincible  valour  and  courage. 

"  Thus  lived  and  thus  died  Henry  of  Lorraine,  Duke 
of  Guise  :  a  Prince  worthie  to  be  in  the  first  rankes  of 
Princes,  goodly,  great,  tall  of  proportion,  amiable  of 
countenance,  great  of  courage,  readie  in  the  execution 
of  his  enterprises,  popular,  dissembling,  but  covering  the 
secrets  of  his  minde  with  his  outward  behaviour,  im- 
bracing  all  times  and  occasions,  politike  in  stratagems, 
making  much  of  his  souldiars,  and  honouring  his  cap- 
taines.  But  a  Prince  who  hath  blemished  the  greatest 
beautie  of  his  practises  by  extreame  ambition  ;  factious, 
a  great  bragger,  vaine  in  beleeving  of  soothsayers  who 
assured  him  of  his  greatnes,  and  of  the  change  of  his 
familie  into  a  royaltie,  proud,  not  able  to  submit  his 
hopes,  even  to  those  from  whome  hee  should  hope  for 
his  advancement,  giving  men  to  understand  by  his  incli- 
nation, that  he  was  not  borne  to  obey,  but  to  commaund, 
and  with  this  dessein,  he  framed  the  minds  of  the  French, 
by  his  first  actions,  to  beleeve  that  he  had  partes  fit  to 
make  a  strange  alteration  in  a  realme. ' ' 


The  place  of  publication  is  London  unless  othernvise  indicated. 
I.    TEXTS 

1607,  4°-  BussY  D'Ambois  :  A  Tragedie:  As  it  hath  been 
often  presented  at  Paules.  London,  Printed  for  William  Aspley, 
[B.  M.    C.  34.  c.  12.] 

1608,4°.  BussY  D'Ambois  :  [&c.  A  reissue  of  the  1607  edi- 
tion, with  the  date  altered.      B.  M.  644.  d.  41.] 

1613,  4°.  The  Revenge  of  Bussy  D'Ambois.  A  TRAce- 
DiE.  As  it  hath  beene  often  presented  at  the  private  Play-house 
in  the  White-Fryers.  Written  by  George  Chapman,  Gentleman. 
London.  Printed  by  T.  S.  and  are  to  be  solde  l^  lohn  Helme,  at 
his  Shop  in  S.  Dunstones  Church-yard,  in  Fleetstreet.  [B.  M. 
C.  34.  c.  16.] 

1641,  4°.  Bussy  D'Ambois  :  A  Tragedie  :  Asithath  been 
often  Acted  with  great  Applause.  Being  much  corrected  and 
amended  by  the  Author  before  his  death.  London.  Printed  by 
A.  N.  for  Robert  Lunne.   [B.  M.  644.  d.  42.] 

1646,  4°.  Bussy  D'Ambois:  [A  .  .  .  London,  as  in  1641 
edition.  ]  Printed  by  T.  W.  for  Robert  Lunne  and  are  to  be  sold 
at  his  house  next  doore  to  the  signe  of  the  Crane  on  Lambeth  Hill 
at  the  end  of  old  Fishstreet.  [B.  M.  644.  d.  43.  A  reissue  of 
the  1 641  edition  with  the  imprint  altered.] 

1657,  4°.  Bussy  D'Ambois  :  A  Tragedie  :  As  it  hath  been 
often  Acted  with  great  applause.  Being  much  corrected  and 
amended  by  the  Author,  George  Chapman,  Gent.  Before  his  death. 
London,  Printed,  for  Joshua  Kirton,  at  his  Shop  in  St.  Pauls 
Church-yard,  at  the  sign  of  the  Kings-Arms.  [B.  M.  644.  d.  44. 
Another  reissue  of  the  1641  edition,  with  a  new  title-page.] 

[Baker  in  his  Biographia  Dramatica  (1812)  11,  73,  mentions 
an  edition  of  Bussy  D'Ambois  in  161 6,  but  no  copy  of  such  an  edi- 


324  Bibliograp^ 

tion  has  been  traced,  and  Dilke,  Old  English  Plays  (1814)  vol.  iii, 
p.  228,  is  probably  right  in  considering  that  the  entry  is  an  error  for 
that  of  1646,  which  Baker  does  not  mention.] 

1691,4°.  BussY  D'Ambois  OR  THE  Husbands  Revenge.  A 
Tragedy.  As  it  is  Acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal.  Newly  Revised 
by  Mr.  D'Urfey  [quotation  from  the  Satires  of  Horace].  London. 
Printed  for  R.  Bendy  in  Covent  Garden,  Jo.  Hindmarsh  over 
against  the  Royal  Exchange,  and  Abel  Roper  at  the  Mitre  near 
Temple  Bar. 

1814,  8°.  Old  English  Plays  ;  being  a  selection  from  the 
early  dramatic  writers.  [Volume  in  contains  Bussy  D'Ambois, 
together  with  Monsieur  D'Oli-ve,  and  Dekker's  TAe  fVonder  of  a 
Kingdom  and  Old  Fortunatus.  A  short  life  of  Chapman  is  prefixed 
to  Bussy  D'Ambois.  The  text  is  that  of  the  edition  of  1641,  in 
modernised  spelling.  The  notes  contain  some  of  the  variants  in  the 
Q  of  1607,  and  explanations  of  many  difficult  phrases.  The  editor, 
though  his  name  does  not  appear,  was  C.  W.  Dilke,  afterwards 
editor  of  the  Athenaum,  and  grandfather  of  the  present  Sir  C.  W. 
Dilke.]  > 

1873,  8°.  The  Comedies  and  Tragedies  of  George  Chap- 
man. Now  first  collected,  with  illustrative  notes  and  a  memoir  of 
the  author.  In  three  volumes.  London.  John  Pearson  York  Street 
Covent  Garden.  [Vol.  11  contains  Bussy  D'Ambois  and  TAe  Re- 
■venge  of  Bussy  D'Ambois,  together  with  Byron's  Conspiracie  and 
Tragedie  and  May-Day.  The  text  of  Bussy  D'Ambois  is,  where 
differences  of  reading  occur,  that  of  the  edition  of  1 641 ,  the  variants 
of  1607  being  given  (with  some  inaccuracies)  at  the  foot  of  the 
page.  Otherwise  the  spelling  of  1607  is  followed,  and  the  title-page 
of  the  1607  Quarto  is  faultily  reproduced.  The  Revenge  of  Bussy 
D'Ambois  is  reprinted  from  the  161  3  (Quarto,  in  the  original  spelling, 
and  with  a  faulty  reproduction  of  the  title-page.  The  explanatory 
notes  to  both  plays  are  very  slight,  but  there  is  a  valuable  introductory 
memoir  to  vol.  i,  giving  extracts  from  previous  criticisms  of  Chap- 
man.] 

l874-S>  8°-  The  Works  of  George  Chapman  :  edited  with 
notes,  by  Richard  Heme  Shepherd.  [Vol.  i.  Plays,  vol.  11,  Homer's 
Iliad  and  Odyssey,  vol.  in,  Poems  and  Minor  Translations,  Chatto 
and  Windus.    An  edition  in  modernised  spelling,  and  with  merely 


llBibliograpt)^  325 

a  sprinkling  of  notes.  To  vol.  m  is  prefixed  Mr.  A.  C.  Swin- 
burne's Essay  on  the  Poetical  and  Dramatic  Works  of  George  Chap- 
man, the  finest  and  most  comprehensive  study  of  Chapman's  writ- 
ings. ] 

1895,  8°.  George  Chapman  edited,  with  an  Introduction  and 
Notes,  by  William  Lyon  Phelps,  M.  A.  Ph.D.  London  :  T.  Fisher 
Unwin.  New  York  :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  [This  volume  of  the 
Mermaid  Series  contains  Bussy  D^  Ambois  and  The  Re-venge,  together 
with  Byron  s  Conspiracie  and  Tragedie  and  All  Fools.  The  text  is 
reprinted  from  the  edition  of  1873,  but  with  the  spelling  modernised. 
There  is  an  introductory  memoir  containing  an  "appreciation" 
of  Chapman  as  a  dramatist,  and  brief  explanatory  notes  are  added  at 
the  foot  of  the  text,  j 


n.     WORKS    AND   ARTICLES    USEFUL   FOR    STUDY 
OF   THE  PLAYS 

1681.  Dedication  of  the  Spanish  Friar,  J.  Dryden.  Re- 
printed in  W.  P.  Ker's  Essays  of  John  Dryden,  vol.  i,  pp.  244-50, 
Oxford,  1900. 

169I.  The  Lives  and  Characters  of  the  English  Dra- 
MATicK  Poets,    G.  Langbaine.    Oxford. 

1 69 1.  Athene  Oxonienses,  Anthony  a  Wood  :  vol.  11,  pp. 
575-81  (edition  continued  by  Ph.  Bliss,  181 5).  Short  life  of 
Chapman. 

1808.  Specimens  of  English  Dramatic  Poets,  Charles 
Lamb.    Lamb  quotes  the  following  passages  from  Bussy  D^  Ambois : 

",  I,  33-135 ;  I,  I,  5-17 ;  h  I,  20-23 ;  h  i,  134-9 ;  h  2, 

10—33.  Further  extracts,  together  with  several  from  The  Re-venge 
of  Bussy  D^Ambois,  were  added  in  1827. 

181 8.  Lectures  on  the  Dramatic  Literature  of  the 
Age  of  Elizabeth.  W.  Hazlitt.  Lecture  iii.  On  Marston,  Chap- 
man, Decker,  and  JVebster. 

1 82 1.  The  Retrospective  Review,  vol.  iv :  Article  on 
Chapman  s  Plays.  This  Article  deals  with  the  Tragedies  and  gives 
long  extracts  from  Bussy  D'Ambois  and  the  two  "  Byron  "  plays. 
It  concludes  :   "  The  Re-venge  of  Bussy  D^Ambois  we  regret  to  say 


326  Bibliograpl)^ 

we  have  never  seen.  The  rarity  of  the  old  plays  is  such,  that  they 
are  only  to  be  found  in  some  public  libraries,  and  in  the  extensive 
hoards  of  private  collectors ;  and  in  such  applications  as  we  have 
reluctantly  caused  to  be  made,  we  confess,  we  have  rather  found  the 
exclusive  spirit  of  the  monopolist,  than  the  liberality  of  the  en- 
lightened lover  of  literature. ' '  A  second  Article,  on  the  Comedies, 
is  contained  in  vol.  v. 

1841.  The  Edinburgh  Review,  April:  Article  on  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  and  their  Contemporaries. 

1865.  Chapman  in  seinem  Verhaltniss  zu  Shakespeare, 
F.  Bodenstedt.     Shakspere  Jahrbuch,  i,  Berlin. 

1874.  The  Cornhill  Magazine,  July  :  article  on  Chapman  s 
Dramatic  Works. 

1875.  George  Chapman  :  A  critical  essay,  A.  C. 
Swinburne.  A  reprint  of  the  Introductory  Essay  to  vol.  11  of 
the  Edition  of  Chapman's  works  edited  by  R.  H.  Shepherd.  Chatto 
&  Windus. 

1887.  The  Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  vol.  x. 
Article  on  George  Chapman  by  A.  H.   BuUen. 

1891.  A  Biographical  Chronicle  of  the  English  Drama, 
F.  G.  Fleay,  vol.  i,  pp.  50-66.     Reeves  and  Turner. 

1899.  A  History  of  English  Dramatic  Literature  to 
THE  death  of  Queen  Anne,  A.  W.  Ward.  New  and  Revised 
Edition,  vol.  11,  chap,  vi,  408-450.    Macmillan. 

1892.  Der  Blankvers  in  den  Dramen  George  Chapmans, 
Emil  Elste.     Halle. 

1897.  Quellen-studien  zu  den  Dramen  George  Chap- 
man's, Philip  Massinger's  und  John  Ford's,  Emil  Koeppel.  An 
account  of  this  important  monograph,  which  is  the  8 2d  volume 
of  the  Strassburg  S^uellen  und  Forschungen  is  given  in  the  Introduc- 
tion, p.  xxxi. 

1900.  George  Chapman  und  das  Italienische  Drama, 
A.  L.  Stiefel.  Shakspere  "Jahrbuch,  xxxv.  Deals  chiefly  with 
the  relation  between  Chapman's  May-Day  and  A.  Piccolomini's 
Alessandro. 

190 1.  Letters  and  Documents  by  George  Chapman,  Ben 
JoNSON,  etc.,  Bertram  Dobell,  printed  in  The  Athenaum,  Nos. 
3830-3833.      These   "letters   and  documents"   form  part  of  a 


llBibliograpl)^  327 

small  quarto  MS.  volume  of  about  90  leaves,  containing  "  copies 
of  letters,  petitions,  or  other  documents  dating  from  about  1580  to 
161 3."  Mr.  Dobell,  to  whom  their  publication  is  due,  considers 
"  that  the  writer  or  collector  of  the  documents  can  have  been  no 
other  than  George  Chapman."  Six  of  these  letters  are  reprinted 
in  Prof.  Schelling's  edition  of  Eastward  Hoe  and  TAe  Alchemist, 
1903. 

1903.  The  Source  of  Chapman's  "The  Conspiracie  and 
Tragedie  of  Charles,  Duke  of  Byron  "  and  "The  Revenge 
of  Bussy  D'Ambois,"  F.  S.  Boas,  in  The  Athenaum,  No.  3924, 
Jan.  loth. 

1903.  Shakespeare  and  the  Rival  Poet,  Arthur  Acheson. 
John  Lane.  An  attempt  to  identify  Chapman  with  "the  rival 
poet"  alluded  to  in  Shakespeare's  Sonnets. 

MS.  Chorus  Vatum,  Joseph  Hunter,  British  Museum 
Addit.  MSS.  24488,  vol.  v,  pp.  61-66.  Article  on  George 
Chapman. 


III.     HISTORICAL    AND   BIOGRAPHICAL  WORKS 
RELATING    TO    BUSSY    D'AMBOIS 

1604-20.  Historic:  sui  temporis,  J.  A.  De  Thou.  The 
earliest  editions,  published  in  1604,  do  not  mention  Bussy.  That 
of  1609,  which  carries  on  the  narrative  to  the  year  1584,  only 
mentions  (lib.  lii,  p.  132)  his  proceedings  during  the  Massacre 
of  St.  Bartholomew.  It  is  the  edition  of  1620,  published  at  Ge- 
neva, and  embracing  events  till  1607  that  includes  (lib.  lxviii, 
p.  330  fF. )  the  narrative  of  Bussy's  murder,  in  printed  Appendix 
A,  and  (lib.  cxiii,  p.  558)  of  Renee  D'Ambois's  meditated  re- 
venge (cf.  Introduction,  p.  xxxvi).  The  most  convenient  edition 
of  De  Thou's  History  is  that  published  by  S.  Buckley  in  1733. 

1615.  Les  Histoires  Tragiques  de  Nostre  Temps,  Fran- 
9ois  de  Rosset.  The  story  of  Bussy's  love  for  the  Countess  of 
Montsoreau,  and  his  murder  forms  the  subject  of  the  17th  His- 
toire,  De  la  mart  phoyable  du  'valeureux  Lysis,  the  most  important 
parts  of  which  are  printed  in  Appendix  A. 

1621.     Journal  de  Henri  III,  P.  de  L'Estoile.      Paris. 


328  Bibliograpli^ 

1628.  Memoires  et  lettres,  Marguerite  de  Valois.  Paris. 
The  edition  published  by  F.  Guessard  for  La  Societe  de  f  Histoire 
de  France  (1842)  is  the  most  convenient. 

1666.  DiscouRS  suR  les  couronnels  de  l'infanterie  de 
France,    Pierre  de   Bourdeille,  Seigneur  de  Brantome.      Leyden. 

1722.  DiscouRS  SUR  LES  DuELS,  Pierre  de  Bourdeille,  etc. 
Leyden. 

1877.  Le  Maine,  l'Anjou  et  Bussy  D'Amboise,  Arthur 
Bertrand.      Le  Mans. 

1885.  Louis  de  Clermont,  Sieur  de  Bussy  D'Amboise, 
GouvERNEUR  D'Anjou,  Andre  Joubert.  Angers  and  Paris. 
A  full  and  interesting  study  of  Bussy's  career  based  upon  first-hand 
materials. 

1888.    Bossy  D'Amboise,  Leon  Marlet.     Paris.    A  sketchy 


IV.   HISTORICAL  WORKS  RELATING  TO  EPISODES 
IN    THE    REVENGE    OF    BUSSY   D'AMBOIS 

1597-  Inventaire  General  de  l'Histoire  de  France, 
Jean  de  Serres.  A  later  edition  in  1603  continues  the  narrative  to 
the  peace  of  Vervins  in  1598.     Paris. 

1605.  HiSToiRE  de  France  durant  sept  annees  de  paix 
Du  REGNE  DE  Henry  IV,  Pierre  Matthieu.    Paris. 

1605.  Chronologie  Septenaire  de  l'Histoire  de  la  Paix 
entre  les  Roys  de  France  et  d'Espagne,  P.  V.  Cayet.     Paris. 

1607.  A  General  Inventorie  of  the  History  of  France, 
Edward  Grimeston.  From  the  beginning  of  that  monarchie  unto 
the  treatie  of  Vervins,  in  the  yeare  1598.  Written  by  Jhon  de 
Serres,  And  continued  unto  these  times,  out  of  the  best  Authors 
which  have  written  of  that  subject.  Translated  out  of  French  into 
English.  [A  second  edition,  in  1 6 11 ,  continues  the  narrative  till 
1 610.]    Upon  this  volume  see  Introduction,  pp.  xxxii-xxxv. 


dDJlojs^arr 


absolute,  perfect. 

abus'd,  deceived. 

additions,  tides. 

admiration,  wonder. 

advis'd,  cautious,  wary. 

affect,  desire. 

allow,  allow'd,  approve,  ap- 
proved. 

amazes,  bewilders. 

annoy,  injure. 

antickes,  buffoons. 

apishnesse,  ridiculous  imita- 
tion. 

approves,  proves. 

Argosea,  a  large  trading  ves- 
sel. 

arguments,  proofs. 

auchthor,  be  the  agent  of. 
autenticall,  legally  valid. 
avise,  intelligence. 

bare,  bareheaded. 
barks,  outer  coverings. 
basilisks,     fabulous     reptiles, 

whose  glance  was  supposed  to 

be  fatal. 
battailia,  order  of  battle. 

belly-gods,  gluttons. 

brack,  breach, 
brave,  braverie,  fine,  finery. 
bumbast,  «.,  padding. 
bumbasts,  'vh.,  stufR  out. 


case,  skin. 

cast,  (i)  />.  p.,  cast  off,  dis- 
used}  (2)  "vb.,  conjecture. 

censure,  judge. 

challenge,  claim. 

characters,  outward  symbols. 

check(e)  at,  ( i  )  take  offence 
at  ;  ( 2 )  go  in  pursuit  of. 
Used  technically  of  a  haivk 
•which  turns  aside  from  its 
proper  quarry  tofollono  inferior 
game. 

clear,  pure,  innocent. 

close,  secret. 

coast,  travel  in  circuitous  fash- 
ion. 

colour,  pretence. 

comfortable,  comforting. 
companion,  base  feUow. 
conceit,  conception,  thought. 
Confirm'd,  well-regulated. 
consent,  sympathy. 
contemptfull,  contemptible. 
cries  clinke,   strikes  the  fa- 
vourable hour. 
curious,  careful,  scrupulous. 

decent,  appropriate. 
denizond,  naturalized. 
designements,      arrange- 
ments. 
discover,  reveal. 


330 


6lo0fi!ar^ 


disparking,  turning  park-land 
into  plough-land. 

emply,  imply. 

encompast,  taken  at  a  dis- 
advantage. 

enseame,  bring  together,  in- 
troduce. Cf.  Spens.  F.  2- 
IV,  II,  35-6,  ivhere  the 
ivordzz^  "includes,"  "con- 
tains together." 

errant,  productive  of  wander- 
ing. 

events,  issues. 

exhale,  draw  up,  raise. 

exhalations,  meteors  (cf. 
yul.   Caesar,  11,  i,  44). 

explicate,  unfold. 
expugn'd,  taken  by  storm, 
exquire,  find  out. 

facts,  deeds. 
fautor,  patron. 
fivers,  "variant  o/"  fibres. 
fleerings,  sneers. 
forfeit,  fault. 

foutre,  an  exclamation  of  con- 
tempt. 
fray,  frighten. 

giddinesse,  foolhardiness. 
glorious,  swelling,  boastful. 
Gordian,  Gordian  knot. 
graduate,  rise  by  steps. 
grasse,  graze. 

hackster,  a  prostitute's  gal- 
lant or  protector. 


haie,  a  boisterous  country 
dance. 

heartlesse,  cowardly. 
humourous,  full  of  humours, 
variable  in  temper. 

idols,  images,  counterfeits. 

ill-favour'd,  of  unpleasant 
appearance. 

impe,  piece  out.  Used,  origin- 
ally, in  haivking,  of  the  pro- 
cess of  grafting  neiv  feathers 
on  a  maimed  wing. 

implide,  -variant  o/"  employed. 

inennerable,  indescribable. 

informed,  moulded,  fashioned. 

ingenuous,  discerning  ;  used 
mistakenly  for  ingenious. 

injurious,  insulting. 

innative,  native. 

intelligencers,  spies. 

jealousie,  suspicion. 

jet,  strut. 

jiggs,  farces,  jocular  perform- 
ances. 

last,  a  certain  weight  or  quan- 
tity of  goods.  In  the  case  of 
poiuder,  it  represented  tiventy- 
four  barrels. 

let,  hinder,  prevent. 

limit,  limitation. 

lucerns,  hunting  dogs.  Used 
in  the  same  sense  by  Chapman 
in  trans,  of  Iliad,  xi,  417. 
The  usual  meaning  of  the  ivord 
is  lynx. 


^loflfflfar^ 


331 


mall'd,  beaten  with  a  mall  or 
mallet,  crushed. 

manlessly,  inhumanly. 

maritorious,  over-fond  of  a 
husband. 

mate,  match  oneself  against. 

meane,  moderation. 

mezel'd,  leprous,  fr.  M.  E. 
mesel,  <  O.  F.  mesel,  me%el, 
leper,  <  M.  L.  misellus,  a 
wretched  person. 

mere,  complete. 

misers,  wretched  persons. 

moon-calves,  false  concep- 
tions. 

naps,  glossy  surfaces  on  cloth. 
naturalls,  idiots. 

nice,  dainty,  scrupulous. 
nick,  notch. 
novation,  revolution. 

openarses,  medlars. 
OStents,  manifestations. 

part,  depart. 

pedisequus,  (Lat. )  lackey. 
peece,  firearm,  gun. 
period,  conclusion. 
politicall,  scheming. 
pide,  dressed  in  motley. 
prevented,  anticipated. 
pricksong,      music      written 

down  with  points. 
proof,  firmness,  impenetrability. 
put-ofs,  excuses. 

queich,  thicket. 


quicke,  alive. 

randon,  earlier  and  more  cor- 
rect form  of  random,  0.  F. 
randon  f.  randir^  to  run  fast. 

ready,  dressed. 

rebating,  blunting. 

rebatoes,  ruffs. 

rebutters,  rejoinders. 

reminiscion,  remembrance 

remission,  forgiveness. 

resolv'd,  informed. 

revoke,  call  back, 

rival  ity,  rivalry. 

scapes,  escapades. 

secureness,  carelessness. 

seres,  claws. 

sensive,  endowed  with  sensa- 
tion. 

servant,  lover. 

several,  separate. 

shadowes,  sunshades,  or 
broad-brimmed  hats. 

shifters,  tricksters,  rogues. 

skittish,  changeable,  capri- 
cious. 

sooth,  confirm,  approve  of. 

spice,  piece,  kind. 

spinners,  spiders. 

splinted,  supported. 

Standish,  inkstand. 

st\\\a.Ao,rare  -variant  o/"stiletto. 

Still'd,  distilled. 

Strappl'd,  strapped. 

SUCCesse,  result. 

surcharg'd,  overladen,  van- 
quished. 


332 


&\0&&W^ 


swindge,  n-,  sway. 
swindling,  swinging   to  and 
fro. 

tall,  excellent,  brave. 

temper,  regulate. 

touch,  censure. 

toy,  whim. 

tracts,  tracks,  traces. 

train,  stratagem. 

triumphs,  pageants. 

troe,  an  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise, added  after  a  ques- 
tion. 

trumpet,  trumpeter. 


trusse,  seize  {used  specially  of 
birds  of  prey). 

•warning  peece,  a  shot  dis- 
charged as  a  signal. 

weather,  tempestuous  commo- 
tion. 

weed,  garment. 

witty,  intelligent. 

w^rack,  wreck. 

wreak,  revenge. 

unready,  undressed. 
vennie,  bout  at  fencing. 


^titjerti^emmt 


EASTWARD   HOE 

By  JoNSON,  Chapman  and  Marston 
and  Jonson's 

THE  ALCHEMIST 

Edited  by  Felix  E.  Schelling,  Professor  of  English  Litera- 
ture in  the  University  of  Pennsylvania. 


Illustration  and  Facsimiles 

A  frontispiece  showing  stage  scene  from  The  Alchemist, 
and  reduced  facsimiles  of  the  title  pages  of  a  1605 
quarto  of  Eastward  Hoe  and  the  1 6 1 6  folio  edition  of 
The  Alchemist. 

The  Texts 

The  text  of  Eastward  Hoe  is  that  of  the  first  edition  as 
exhibited  in  Qz,  with  the  variants  of  Qi  and  Q3  care- 
fully set  forth  in  footnotes. 

The  text  of  The  Alchemist  is  that  of  the  first  collective 
edition  of  Jonson's  works,  the  folio  of  1 61 6,  which 
received  the  author's  careful  revision.  The  variants  of 
other  folios  and  quartos  are  noted. 

The  Editor's  Work 

also  includes  a  Life  of  Ben  Jonson,  4  pages  ;  an  Intro- 
duction, 23  pages  ;  Notes  on  Eastward  Hoe,  20  pages  ; 
Notes  on  The  Alchemist,  25  pages  ;  Bibliography,  7 
pages  ;   Glossary,  i  o  pages. 


Gilt  embossed  cover, 
xxxii  +  408  pages.     60  cents. 


THE   WHITE  DEVIL 

AND 

THE  DUCHESS   OF  MALFY 

By  John  Webster 

Edited  by  Martin  W.   Sampson,   Professor  of  English  in 
Indiana  University. 


Illustration  and  Facsimiles 

Portrait  of  Richard  Perkins,  the  actor  ;  and  reduced  fac- 
similes of  the  title-pages  of  the  first  quarto  editions  of 
The  White  Devil  and  of  The  Duchess  of  Malfy. 

The  Texts 

The  text  of  The  White  Devil  is  that  of  the  first  (1612) 
quarto,  with  variants  noted. 

The  text  of  The  Duchess  of  Malfy  is  that  of  the  British 
Museum  copy  of  the  first  (1623)  quarto,  with  variants 
noted. 
The  Editor's  Work 

also  includes  a  Life  of  John  Webster,  4  pages  ;  an 
Introduction,  34  pages  ;  Notes  on  The  White  Devil, 
2  2  pages  ;  Notes  on  The  Duchess  of  Malfy,  1 7  pages  ; 
Bibliography,  9  pages ;   Glossary,  1 2  pages. 


Gilt  embossed  cover, 
xliv  +  422  pages.      60  cents. 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN 

AND 

SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER 

By  Oliver  Goldsmith 

Edited  by  Austin  Dobson,  LL.D.  (Edinburgh). 


Illustration  and  Facsimiles 

A  frontispiece  showing  stage  scene  from  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer  ;  and  reduced  facsimiles  of  the  title-pages  of  the 
fifth  octavo  edition  (1768)  of  The  Good-Natur'd  Man, 
and  of  the  fifth  octavo  edition  (1773)  of  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer. 

The  Texts 

The  text  of  The  Good-Natur'd  Man  is  that  of  the  fifth 
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octavo  editions,  with  variants  noted.  The  text  of  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer  is  that  of  the  fifth  edition  —  the  last 
published  during  Goldsmith's  life  —  with  variants  noted. 
Appended  are  the  epilogues  and  song. 

The  Editor's  Work 

also  includes  a  Life  of  Oliver  Goldsmith,  4  pages  ;  an 
Introduction,  2 1  pages  ;  Notes,  2 1  pages  ;  Bibliography, 
7  pages  ;   Glossary,  2  pages. 


Gilt  embossed  cover, 
xl  +  285  pages.      60  cents. 


The  foUoiving  'volumes  are  nonv  ready  ; 

SECTION  I 

The  Gospel  of  Saint  Matthew  in  West-Saxon.    Edited  from  the  manuscripts 

by  Professor  J.  W.  Bright.     40  cents. 

The  Gospel  of  Saint  John  in  West-Saxon.     Edited  from  the  manuscripts  by 
Professor  J.  W.  Bright.     With  notes  and  glossary.     60  cents. 

Judith.     With  notes  and  glossary  by  Professor  A.  S.  Cook.     40  cents. 

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Juliana.     With  notes  and  glossary  by  Professor  W.  Strunk,  Jr.     40  cents. 

SECTION   III 

Chapman's  Bussy  D'Ambois  (both  parts).     Edited  by  Professor  F.  S.  Boas. 
60  cents. 

Jonson's  Eastward  Hoe  and  The  Alchemist.    Edited  by  Professor  F.  E. 
Schelling.     60  cents. 

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Sampson.     60  cents. 

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Austin  Dobson.     60  cents. 

Browning's  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,  Colombe's  Birthday,  A  Soul's 

Tragedy,  and  In  a  Balcony.      Edited  by  Professor  Arlo  Bates.     60  cents. 
Robertson's  Society  and  Caste.      Edited  by  T.  E.  Pemberton.     60  cents. 

SECTION  VI 
Select  Poems  of  Coleridge.     Edited  by  A.  J.  George.     60  cents. 
Select  Poems  of  Swinburne.      Edited  by  W.  M.  Payne.      Nearly  read;. 


2  00  volumes  in  preparation 


D.  C.  HEATH  &  CO.,  Publishers 
Boston  New  York  Chicago  London 


DATE  DUE 


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SEP  2  8 


1977 


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1977  X 


JAN    4  1978 
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